


Medical Matters

by Quiet_Shadow



Series: Project Regen Files [5]
Category: Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Breastfeeding, Gen, Mech Preg, Medical, Medical Procedures, Medical School, Multi, Sparklings, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 18:23:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3080765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quiet_Shadow/pseuds/Quiet_Shadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Decepticons took over Cybertron. The Autobots had more or less resigned themselves to be enslaved or executed. They weren’t prepared, however, for the Decepticons to make them all go through frame regression and turn most of the population into Sparklings and Younglings.</p>
<p>But even for those who remains in adult/young adult frames, the situation is hard to deal with.</p>
<p>Just ask Ratchet, who like his fellow medics, has been sent back to Protihex Medical Mechanical in order to learn everything there is to know about Sparklings, Sires and Carriers...</p>
<p><i>Last Chapter:</i> Ratchet: Pharmacy Visit<br/><b>New Chapter:</b> Hook: Faculty Lounge</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ratchet: Bar Night

**Author's Note:**

> And here we are. To celebrate the first day of the new year, here's the first chapter of Ratchet (and Bulkhead)'s part in the Project Regen Files. \o/  
> Take note that it'll also serve as a dumping place for a lot of backstory matters that will be only brushed up in other parts, such as Sparkling care/Carrying cycle and other matters.  
> Pairings will be added later on. :)  
> Enjoy, and Happy New Year everyone. :)  
> <3

Protihex Medical Mechanical’s Campus Bar was not Maccadam’s, for sure, but it did provide the students with a place to relax and eventually drink their sorrows, woes or stress. Or at least, it used to, millions of stellar cycles ago, when the newly protoformed Ratchet had been sent over to learn the tough work of a medic. He had been half-assigned and half-longing for the learning, i.e. he had had an interest to study medicine and had marked enough points on the traditional exams given to all new onlined ‘bots to get to choose his own future assignation. He had been lucky, he knew that. Only the best had gotten to pick whatever trade they wanted. The ones who didn’t score enough were always rerooted toward less prestigious tasks, despite their Spark’s calling. But the system had been flexible enough that no ‘bot ever was truly unhappy.

Yeah, that had been the system when he had been brought online, Ratchet mused as he waited at the counter for his turn. Over the stellar cycles, though, it had gotten much more rigid, to the point only the scores determined your future assignment. And that, Ratchet always thought it was wrong. A mech should have been able to do whatever he wished, not just what the system though his ‘capacities’ should be employed to.

Ratchet could measure up just how… how nice it had been for him to be able to attend Protihex Medical Mechanical back then. It was, after all, one best and most famous medical school on Cybertron and in the Commonwealth, second only to the now defunct Parados Medical Academy, Paradron’s main Academy -- and for most Autobots and mechs who had been old enough to known about it, Polihex Medical Mechanical was THE best, if only because Parados Medical Academy had primarily formed war-frame types medical personnel, and some elitist mechs had found it to be a proof of inferiorness. Ratchet thought it was plain silly, but nobody had ever asked his advice about it. In a way, he wouldn’t have minded studying at Paradosn though he didn’t regret going to Polihex in the end. He had spend some of his best stellar cycles in those halls.. A great place for learning and just… enjoy yourself.

Nowaday, Ratchet wasn’t so sure anymore, especially not with all the… ‘changes’ the old medical Academy went through.

The first changes dated back from the Great War, when the Academy and the adjacent hospital, Southern Medical Mechanical, where most students made their first internship had been bombed -- a cowardly act, truly, for medics and medics-in-learning should never had been targeted, as their crosses and glyphs assured them a modicum of respect and leeway from any and every combatants. Nobody shot a medic… provided said medic wasn’t actively participating to the fight. So the bombing came as a surprise. There had been hundred of injured, and Ratchet prefered not to think about the dead.

Supposedly, the bombing was attributed to an error made by a newly promoted officer. Said officer was supposed to bomb the other side of the city, where the military base and the arsenal were situated. Ratchet wasn’t sure he believed it -- though he did believe the rumors Starscream had been involved in some way or shape. That Seeker was twisted enough to have given wrong orders or something.

But even if he had nothing to do with the incident, the results were the same. Part of the campus had laid in ruins and had to gradually be reconstructed, starting with the hospital and its different wards, before doing the students dormitories and finally building back the stores, cafeteria and various place of entertainments that had previously existed. Everything was pretty mixed up, Ratchet had mused as he had first walked the alleys, slowly learning the new layout and committing it to memory.

The music store he used to hang to when he was first protoformed and studying here had been razed down to make place to a crystal garden in which the students in pharmacology and metallobotany grew some of their side projects or held lessons on plant and crystal recognition. Ratchet accepted the change with mixed feelings. On one hand, he regretted not being able to go and pick something to listen anymore. On the other hand, metallobotany was a fascinating subject, and an elective he could always opt for, and seeing the garden being semi-open to the public really tempted him to just do it.

It wasn’t the only change the whole place when through, though. The alleys had been enlarged to allow easier passage -- and less dark corners to hide. The small movie theater remained at the same place, but its exterior had been radically modified, now adorning a dark paint scheme and the painted silhouette of famous Golden Age star Astoria, a femme of petite stature who had been made famous for her roles of klutz and weirdness-magnet -- which, if one had to believe the legend, wasn’t totally acting. Astoria, according to rumors, had truly possessed an ability to just… ‘jinx’ machines she came in contact with, and that had included her own systems. There actually was a book dedicated to her case somewhere in the library, but Ratchet had never bothered to try and hunt it down to read. In a way, from the little he had seen of her work and heard of her, she reminded Ratchet of Captain Fanzone.

But, jinxing ability aside, she had remained a famous actress and a fairly popular one until the war made all that was entertainment take a back seat. Seeing her silhouette decorate a movie theater wasn’t exactly to Ratchet’s taste, but it was at least understandable.

So was the new library and its architecture, for that matter. The building hadn’t been too damaged during the war, and the collections of bookfiles inside had scarcely be touched. However, the necessity to rebuild some of the walls and the roof had lead to an until-then shelved project to be brought to life. The rubble around the library had been dealt with, and annexes had been build in their place, connected to the main building by tunnel of steel, glass and colored crystal, each annexes held work rooms and specific collections. As for the main building, a colored glass dome had replaced the previously flat roof in order to get a better amount of lighting inside. That, Ratchet wasn’t going to grumble about; it avoided having to recalibrate his optics to adjust to the former darkness of the place.

What else was new? Hmm, a couple of fountains inspired by various myths of the different planets of the Commonwealth, a new central office for all the Administrative department, a few new buildings for classes,... Nothing unexpected here, though it denoted there were more students around. Not surprising at all, given the current circumstances.

The dorms alone… well, there were more dorms around, but that was an even more recent addition, something the Decepticons had put in place while the Autobots waited for their eventual fate. It made the medic grimace as he thought about it; he had expected execution, not…

“And what will that be for you, young mech?”

Ratchet shook his head to clear his thoughts and glared at the bartender who was watching him eagerly with a big grin and far too sly red optics. Damn ‘Con… And damn that ‘young mech’ thing they kept calling him now! Ratchet wasn’t that young! … Except, he had undergone a serious makeover, what’s with the ‘Project Regen’ and its application to almost all Autobots. When Ratchet stared in a mirror, his reflection was that of the mech he had been millions of stellar cycles ago, perhaps even more ‘youthful’ looking, and it weirded him out. He looked almost brand new of the protoforming factory, with some added details, like the fact he was thinner than he had ever been before. But, not matter what his outer shell looked like, his Spark certainly didn’t feel young, and getting referred or talked to as if he was a newly protoformed mech was galling to say the least.

A part of him wanted to just throw his fist into the Decepticon’s face -- or, alternatively, punch that slagging purple symbol on his chest, but the calmer, more rational part of Ratchet’s mind pointed out it would serve no purpose. At best, he’d get kicked out of the bar and banned, which would be a pain. At the worst, he’d get picked up by the ‘Campus Security Service’ and throw into a makeshift cell before facing the Dean and a Disciplinary Council, who would deal ‘punishment’ as they saw fit, depending on the ‘severity’ of the act and the profile of the offender. Said punishments could go from extra homework to forced extra counselling sessions to jail times, as a few mechs who didn’t have Ratchet’s restraint found out.

Grimacing, he nodded sharply. “Table 6.41’s order. Two cans of Michelobay, a Nova Cronal energon drink with extra iron turnings, an iced, theragen flavored oil and a Mudder’s Milk,” he groused unhappily, as the barman looked down at a screen to check who the patrons were and who had ordered what.

That was a novelty of the old bar/student lounge; to make sure the patrons didn’t take too much intoxicating substances, or that t ‘underage students’ didn’t get into heavy stuffs, each patron was supposed to ping his ID upon entering; if a mech was alone, he was directed to a stool at the bar or at a random place, whereas groups were directed to tables. Once there, they could choose on the menu and send their order directly to the barman. A member of the group just had to go pay and retrieve the order. On busy nights, there were a few hired waiters -- usually students wanting extra pocket-credits -- but this night cycle was a calm one.

The barman nodded. “That’s the Femme’s second energon drink,” he noted. “She can have a last one if she wish to, but don’t count on me to serve her more; she’ll get overcharged if she does. Not good for a Youngling,” he pointed out.

“We’re not Younglings,” Ratchet snapped out by reflex.

“Sure you’re not,” came the easy answer, even as the bigger mech started to prepare the tray. “Want some snacks as well? Copper and cadmium chips are at half-price tonight…”

“No thank,” Ratchet groused as he took the tray and handed his student card for payment. Something else that was new and made him both uneasy and amazed at its simplicity.

The student card was everything -- literally. It was a pass to access the various campus area, which were predetermined by your choice of courses, class schedules and own study level -- Ratchet, for example, was part a ‘fifth cycle-level student’, which meant he had access to pretty much all the facilities any time he wished to, barring the curfew implanted on the campus, unlike, say, a ‘first cycle-level’ student, who was pretty much limited to a sector of the library, the cafeteria, the classes buildings and the students lounge, where they served only non-intoxicating drinks.

The card doubled as a credit cards as well, to Ratchet’s surprise when he had first received it. All were pre-programmed with a ornly allotment that students were supposed to use wisely in order to refuel and buy necessities or entertainment. No other way to pay was allowed on campus. It was, supposedly, to help the pupils understand the value of money. Personally, Ratchet thought it was more because the Decepticon takeover had somehow slagged up the economy and they were trying to get it back into control in small steps.

“Here you go,” the barman said as he handed back the card. “You’re running low, just so you know. Better be careful with your funds, you’re not scheduled for a refill until one more deca-cycle,” he warned not too unkindly. Ratchet just grunted. He knew that. It didn’t stop him from paying for a round -- he owned his friends that much, as they had paid the last few ones. It was his turn, and he felt entitled to pay for it, knowing the others were not much better off than himself.

Still, the shortcoming of money was becoming a recurrent problem. In seven orbital cycles, it was the sixth time he was running too short for his liking, despite trying to be careful. However, the need to buy solvent and cleaning products, as well as some entertainment to ease his mind and finally, his indulgence in drinking when he had a pretty rough solar cycle didn’t help him much in keeping his finances high.

He sighed internally, and wondered if he would have to try and apply for a side-job, like some of his fellow students did. He ought to ask the others about it, he mused as he made his way toward their table while carefully balancing the tray. Some of them already worked like that, and could always tell him if it was worth it.

“Here we go,” Ratchet groused as put the tray on the table and started to hand the drinks around. “Nova Cronal four you, Red. Mudder’s Milk for First Aid, iced oil for Rung and your Michelobay, Ambulon,” he said as he handed the can over and sat down, taking his own order. The distribution was answered by quiet thank you or a few grunts.

Nursing his can, Ratchet sipped with pleasure. Michelobay wasn’t his favorite, but it was decent and held more flavor than the blander Heinleinken. It was also far from being intoxicating, unless drunk in large quantities, unlike the Nova Cronal energon Red Alert always favored. He glanced at her and was unsurprised to see her looking surly at her drink, elbows on the table and cheeks resting on her fists. He peered at her for a moment, once again marvelling at the changes that showed on her face. Granted, he hadn’t known her so well to start with, as they hadn’t been in the same promotion the first time around, but they had patched ‘bots together toward the end of the Great War, when she had first graduated. Red’s face had become, well, more youthful; chin rounder, optics larger, cheeks a bit more full. The rest of her body had also underwent some transformations; her headdress-like helm had become smaller as well, and the plates alongside her hips, shaped like a trenchcoat, barely reached her shins now.

All of them were different in some way or shape, Ratchet thought, but he couldn’t always identify how -- not having known most of their rag-tag band before being forced to attend classes at his old alma-mater. That in itself had been a big shock; he had half-expected to be executed -- half only, because he was a medic, and medics were always valuable. On the other end, he had been Omega Supreme’s mentor, which was almost a certain death sentence.

So, when the transport’s doors had opened and he had recognized the Protihex Medical Mechanical’s buildings, well… There had been relief, and even more worrying. What were they all doing there?

And then the ‘classes’ had started, and why they were here and alive had become quite obvious.

A grunt from Red Alert brought him back to his senses. “You’re in a fine mood tonight,” he commented simply, and received a glare in turn. “Trouble with the classes?” he asked not unsympathetically. It wouldn’t be the first time one of their little group was in a sour or shocked mood over some of the things they were ‘learning’ about in class.

“Nothing I want to talk about,” the femme snapped.

Rung coughed, putting his own drink back on the table and pushing his green, round visor-glasses back with a finger. “It isn’t very unhealthy to…” he started to say, but First Aid made gestures for him to drop the topic right away, and after a moment of hesitation, the psychiatre did, though he seemed unhappy about it.

“That’s about the last ‘homework’ you had to turn in, isn’t it?” Ambulon asked between two sips of his Michelobay, not even looking at his fellow medic. Red Alert looked at him sharply and the mech made a defensive gesture. “Before you say anything, I’ll just say that the handful of students present in the hall at the moment you and Hook had a row known as much, though none of us were privy to the details. The isolation of his office isn’t that good, but it still does its job and muffle noises. One has to wonder just how loud the two of you were to make everyone so aware of your… argument,” he said as calmly as he could.

“Not loud enough for me to shatter his audios,” the femme answered easily, still sounding sour, but stopping to glare at everyone and everything in general, to Ratchet’s relief. Good; given how unhappy their fellow Autobot medic had seemed so far and how she seemed to enjoy to show it, he had been wary to go drinking with her. Perhaps, with any luck, this evening wouldn’t be a total waste. Even if she had mentioned Hook; frankly, the mech also got on his CPU, and he had only met him… oh, perhaps thrice so far. That, and he had a strange way to look at him Ratchet wasn’t sure he was comfortable with. The white and red mech wouldn’t say he was looking forward the moment he would actually have to assist to his classes. So far, he had chosen other classes to attend, but sooner or later, he’d have to take Sparkling-surgery... 

“So, what did the big bad Decepticon do to you?” Ambulon asked, drawling.

“... he called me sloppy,” Red Alert finally answered before taking a large gulp of her energon. All the mechs around her blinked, though for different reasons. Ratchet and Rung, because it was a very unexpected accusation, given how much focus they knew Red gave to her job. First Aid, because he thought it was not a very nice thing to say to someone, especially given all they were supposed to learn yet. As for Ambulon, it was more…

“And you’re angry because of THAT? Pit, Red, Hook have called dozens of mechs and femmes worse things! ‘Sloppy’ is rather nice for him, I’ll let you know,” he added, thinking back about his own interactions with the surgeon, a long, long time ago.

“He also said my work was second rate,” the femme groused, optics flashing. That mech everyone draw a collective intake. Ooooh. Yes, that was bad. Nobody ever said a medic’s work was second rate. Never. Especially not when said medic was a femme, and when that femme was Red Alert. “Sloppy! Second rate! Me! Me, who found a cure to the Gold Plastic Syndrome that was ailing so many of our colonies on the frontier!” she grumbled, citing the one thing she had been made famous for. Ratchet nodded wisely, and First Aid hesitantly patted the femme’s hand.

Ambulon, still, tilted his head. “Was he speaking of your field work, or was he just speaking of your research and written work?”

Red Alert grimaced and didn’t answer, making Ambulon sigh. “Nevermind. Your lack of answer is answer enough, if I may say so.” Ambulon leaned back in his seat, his oil can temporarily forgotten. “Red, how many times do we have to repeat that antagonizing our ‘teachers’ is not just plain stupid, it’s also completely pointless?” he chided her, though one could hear the concern in his voice.

“Oh, please,” the femme grunted.

“He’s right, Red Alert, and you know it,” Rung mentioned gently. “Unless we complete all the classes and assignments they give to us and unless we pass their so-called ‘final exams’, then we won’t be able to go back to working in the field. Do you know just how many Autobots… how many patients need our help?”

“Including Decepticons?” Red Alert asked dryly.

“There’s nothing wrong healing and repairing Decepticons… isn’t it?” First Aid asked in a small voice, shifting uneasily.

“No, there is not, and it’s not wrong either for Decepticons to try and repair us,” Rung said immediately, even as Red alert humphed. Ratchet’s optics flashed, but he said nothing, opting to just sip more of his can. He could have told a lot of things, most of them not nice, about the dangers of healing a Decepticon. He hadn’t forgotten about Oil Slick and the Cosmic Rust after all. It was still a very bitter memory to him, and he ached to actually wrap his hands around the slagger’s throat and squeeze it until he managed to burst his main energon lines.

“Did they tell you about your patients, by the way?” Ambulon asked the orange and white mech, trying to diffuse the situation before Red Alert could start ranting.

Rung pushed back his visor-glasses once more. “Actually, yes. They finally accessed my demands to know to whom they had been assigned. I was very worried for some of them -- they do require regular therapy sessions, after all, and I was never fully satisfied with our new overlords’ standard ‘patients are being properly cared for, your files have been handled to your successors, don’t worry and keep studying in order to get back to them’. Well, just the other cycle, I actually received a notice from one of the Decepticons’ psychiatrist, one Inkblot, who asked for my input over one of my previous patients who he’s currently treating.” He seemed very pleased, though his joy seemed tempered somewhat. “I answered as truthfully as I could, of course, and my willingness seemed to make a favorable impression, for he was willing to give me a list of mechs who had been under my care he was currently treating. It’s only a few, but it’s such a relief,” he sighed.

Ambulon nodded. “I don’t doubt it. Say, you think that contact was because you’ve nearly enough credits to go on an internship?” he pondered aloud.

“The idea struck me too,” Rung said, nodding. “I’m not certain yet, but I’m hoping it was some sort of assessment of me, my personality and work ethic in order for me to work with that mech.”

Red Alert grunted. “Big deal.” Her voice wasn’t quite as heated as before, though. Probably because, as loud as she was in decrying everything the Decepticons did, she too urged to go back to actual work instead of studying dry bookfiles. However, her grades so far reflected her unwillingness to bend and adapt, as well as learning what the ‘Cons wanted them to learn, so Ratchet rather doubted she’d get offered an internship anytime soon.

As the little group chatted, he let his mind wander, thinking back about his own troubles with the new material they were all required to learn. Sometimes, he just wanted to drop it all. What point did it served to have them learn all… all THAT? They were fit to exercise medicine already, and if someone needed a specialist, well, the Decepticons were there, weren’t they? Besides, there were a lot of ‘bots like Red who weren’t too keen on taking Decepticons patients.

If they had been speaking of soldiers and twisted mechs like Oil Slick alone, Ratchet probably would have been as reluctant and vocal against the mere idea.

On the other end…

On the other end, there were a lot of civilians wearing the Decepticon brand around. Simple workers, technicians, but also racers, couriers, entertainers, commercants,… Sparklings. He swallowed a large gulp at that. Sparklings; kindled beings, with such simple processors and such a small form that they were virtually unable to do anything by themselves and had to naturally grown up into a normal, adult-sized frame -- very much like Sari and all the miniature humans he had seen on Earth. The whole concept was mind-boggling to say the least… except Ratchet knew it was entirely possible. With organics, at the very least. Believe it or not, he had actually done his researches as to how the inhabitants of Earth managed to produce so many protoforms -- well, other humans. And he hadn’t wished to ask their resident organic friend for details, knowing how… mischievous she could be.

He hadn’t really believed it at first… then he had found enough evidence to want to make him purge, or at least go lie down and take a long break from reality as he pondered over the process.

Then discovering that, apparently, his own species could do the very same thing…

Suffice to say, it was disquieting. But on the whole, Ratchet thought that he took it better in stride than most of his fellow Autobots -- especially the younger generation. Now, Ratchet had known some beings akin to… to Sparklings existed before, of course. He had met some before the Great War, but he had always thought they were just products of ‘budding’, not the result of, well… sexued reproduction. The ‘bots younger than him, though? They had never seen something like that, and hadn’t even considered it was possible.

Then again… a lot of the medical corps had been less shocked than he had expected. Some, as First Aid had explained once, felt there was something shall he say… ‘fishy’ about some of their readings when they scanned a frame. Something about the pelvic articulations and cabling being a bit off compared to some of the charts they had studied, though they hadn’t been able to say how, and had ended up chalking it up to faulty or outdated diagrams. A good part of them had really suspected there had been something not quite right.

Nobody had ever thought their own scanners had been tempered with, though. Hadn’t it been a ‘pleasant’ surprise, Ratchet thought grimly as he took another gulp of oil. The mass-produced Autobot scanners had all been pre-programmed in a certain way, which made them absolutely ignore some parts of the average Cybertronian’s anatomy, i.e. the interface rod or ‘spike’ and its housing, as well as the internal cavity and tubing called ‘reproductive chamber’ and ‘valve’.

Somewhere along the line, someone high in the chain of command and in the medical field must have come up with the idea that ‘if the scanner shows nothing, then it doesn’t exist’. Brilliant idea. Really smooth. He was being sarcastic, here.

Just how many ‘bots had been mutilated during surgery when medics who didn’t know better found the extra parts and, thinking them useless or possibly defectives/results of some kind of mutation, had them removed? More chilling, though, was how no word of it ever came out in the medical and scientific reviews and specialized magazines Ratchet followed; surely, someone had noticed and had tried to share the discovery before? The simple fact there wasn’t even a basic record somewhere spoke of a cover up of epic proportions, to the point one had to doubt the Autobots were as righteous as they liked to portray themselves.

Granted, after Project Omega came out, Ratchet already knew the side he had joined could be pretty dastardly and immoral if they thought it was for the greater good...

Ugh. He was starting to get a processor ache -- and not just because of the oil. He put back his can with a grimace. It wouldn’t do to continue drinking if he was going to end up wasting it all should his processor short-circuit and gave his tank the command to purge. Checking his chronometer, he grimaced even more as he realized how late it was becoming. Curfew was still a whole megacycle away, but most dormitory responsible prefered to have the students back to their rooms before half a megacycle before the actual curfew. Oh, he could still stay and enjoy one more drink if he wanted to, but he didn’t feel like it. No, better cut his losses here and head back. With any luck, the night air would do well for his circuits.

Still, he had a question to ask around, and he hadn’t forgotten.

“Say,” he drawled. “does any of you know where I should apply for a side job? Just two or three megacyles a deca-cycles for some extra money,” he precised.

Ambulon looked at him sympathetically. “Finances easily going in the red, do they? Well, you could still apply to help fill forms at the Administration building; they rarely turn an extra servos away. That’s what you do, don’t you, First Aid?” he asked the younger mech who shuffled.

“Well, yeah… but they decided to not take any new personnel for now. Too many ‘bots send applications. I think it’s the same thing at the Library -- Fixit told me they weren’t hiring anyone new either.”

Ratchet about swore. That had been his best bets. Red Alert leaned back in her seat. “Tough luck, Ratch.”

“I suppose you can’t offer any idea or insight?” he sniped at her in turn. It was a well-known fact Red Alert was very much against the idea of working on anything helpful for the ‘Cons, and so had never made an effort to look onto a side job. Still, she never stopped or protested anyone else from doing so; she could at least recognize it was practical and it really helped some of their fellow Autobots, if only to occupy their minds a moment.

The femme seemed to ponder. “Well, perhaps you can see about an usher position at the movie theater. I’m not sure if they’re recruiting currently, but Minerva would be happy to…”

“No!!!!” Ratchet snapped immediately, optics darting right and left, just in case the mentioned femme would be around, and sagging in relief when he discovered she wasn’t here. On a professional level, he had hardly anything to reproach to Minerva, who was hard working despite her youth. But on a personal level… she just made him want to run as fast as he could to get away from her.

Fanbots were just… brr. He could only shudder. Why that femme had fixated on him, he couldn’t even begin to understand, but she was, and she hardly ever left him alone. Especially since they discovered their ‘extra bits’ and had gone through what the ‘Cons jokingly called ‘Interfacing 101’ and had not-too-covertly encouraged them to try it by themselves, as it would prove very valuable in their studies and professional life, if only on the account they’d have to deal with interface-related injuries.

Anyway, ever since that class, Minerva’s obsession with him had taken what Ratchet deemed to be a creepy edge. She was always rubbing against him and glomping him, not-so-innocently asking him to join her in her shared quarters when her roommate wasn’t here, or openly asking to ‘test interfacing with her’.

Ugh.

She was just plain scary, he decided, and he didn’t want to think about what she’d do if they ever worked in close proximity in a darkened room with rows and rows of seats to hide behind… With his luck, she’d take it as an invitation to do whatever she had in head.

“No, not anything to do with Minerva,” he managed to say, trying to ignore his friends chuckles.

“Well, then I don’t know what to do for you, Ratch,” Red Alert indicated.

“Perhaps you should check the main board to see for ads?” Rung suggested. “You can always find something in between, often related to classes. Perhaps you’ll some luck there.”

“Yeah… perhaps,” Ratchet mused before shaking his head. “Anyway, I’m heading back to the dorm. I’ll let the door unlocked for you, Ambulon,” he nodded at his roommate who grunted in agreement. There were some quiet ‘good byes’ exchanged and Ratchet went out in the night.

On the way, he paused and looked up at the stars, wondering if perhaps one of them was Earth. Then he sighed and just went on. It was all wistful thinking…


	2. Bulkhead: A Day in Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On an average day in the Decepticons' care, Bulkhead gets to see an old friend...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll use the occasion to remind readers that the timeline of 'Medical Matters' is very loose and not yet determinated. Fics won't be published in chronological order, so I hope it'll stay understandable anyway.

Life, Bulkhead mused, wasn’t so bad. At least, it wasn’t so bad for him. Oh, he knew full well that some of his fellow Autobots were having a hard time dealing with, well, everything, and him too had at first in the very beginning, but now? Now, he was growing kinda… comfortable about the whole situation. Sure, there were downside, but there were also plenty of advantage at being so small!

First off, there was the being picked up, hugged close and cuddled bit, something the various caretakers at the crèche seemed to enjoy doing a lot for every little Autobot under their care. Now, that felt wonderful. Being a rather large Autobot -- among the tallest/bulkiest of his kind -- and having always been so, Bulkhead had never been comforted or, well, simply cuddled before. He found it to be amazingly agreeable, and he wondered why Bumblebee had never seemed to care much for hugs and small kisses on his forehead and nuzzling.

Perhaps he had been too smothered with it when he had first onlined? Small and well, cute as he had been, he may have had what Bulkhead never did … Well. Who knew. He felt a little guild pang at the thought of Bumblebee, as he didn’t know where his little buddy might have had ended and if he was alright, just like he didn’t know if Prowl and the Boss-bot and Ratchet were alright, and he kinda felt bad for not worrying more about them or trying to look for them. However, the moment he was picked up and cuddled or fed, he soon forgot his guilt as he basked in what basically amounted to the most positive attention he had ever gotten from anyone.

He loved his team, he loved them dearly, because they really were the greatest pals he ever had, but… Well, they didn’t think him quite that bright. That was kinda why he had helped construct that Space Bridge for the Decepticons that they then used to conquer Cybertron and oh, he really, really hoped his friends didn’t hate him for that. He had just wanted… just wanted to prove he wasn’t just some big, stupid brute.

His shoulders sagged a bit in sadness. He didn’t have time to delve on it, however, as he was immediately scooped up and hugged by one of the caretakers. “Oh, is the little darling sad? Don’t be, sweetspark,” the big mech cooed, and Bulkhead almost humphed. He liked being hugged, but he could have done without some of the ‘baby talk’. “Someone is starting to get grumpy,” the caretaker chuckled. “Are you hungry, little one? Would you like some sweet, sweet energon?” he cooed.

Bulkhead immediately looked up, slightly bobbing his head in agreement. He was kinda hungry… and he never turned down being fed, because that was something else he liked about the situation. As an Autobot, as an… adult, he had always felt a bit self-conscious about his energon and oil consumption, mainly because they had limited resources to distribute between every members of his batch then of his team. Optimus had never done that, but Bulkhead still remembered the sting of his batch manager snapping at him to not eat so much, mumbling about big ‘bots being gluttons. So, yeah, Bulkhead had always felt awkward about eating his fill before. But not anymore.

As a… a ‘baby’, a Sparkling as they called them all now they had shrunk, Bulkhead could eat his fill and even be offered second and third until he was full, and nobody ever said anything, just cooed at him about how ‘cute’ he was and how ‘healthy’ his appetite was. He never went hungry. And, he mused as the caretaker opened his chestplates and let the pouches on his chest extend, he didn’t mind the suckling at all, unlike some others.

As soon as the caretaker nodded and brought him close to the feeding lines, Bulkhead took the small nub of one pouch in his mouth and started to suckle with gusto, making happy noises as he felt the rich fluid fill his mouth. Suckling out of a pouch or from a ‘Sparkling bottle’ was something that had come very naturally to him. Probably because he already had had some previous experience with the process.

It was a… funny story. Funny for those that listened to it, anyway, ‘cause Bulkhead hadn’t thought it funny at all for him. Long story short, when he had first discovered his wrecking ball, he had… accidentally hit himself in the face with it, and in a very hard way at that. As a result, his jaw and face had been really, well, wrecked, and he hadn’t been able to drink a cube the normal way until a medic had done repairs. Unfortunately, it had taken quite a while, ‘cause newly protoformed mechs who got injured due to their own stupidity didn’t get to get repaired as fast as Senators, Enforcers, or workers.

So, anyway, they had to find a way to feed him until he could guld down fuel normally, and one of his batch mate, a mech they later send for training at the Sciences Ministry, had come up with a… ‘teat’, so to speak, to cap his cubes and allow him to refuel by sucking out the energon through it.

It was funny to found out it was not a new invention at all, after all, he thought distractedly. Obviously, the Decepticons were quite familiar with it, and so had been humans. It made him wonder just how many species had come up with the idea to make artificial ‘nubs’ to feed their young…

Anyway, that incident… and a couple of others if he was perfectly honest, hadn’t helped his reputation as a well-meaning but simple and clumsy ‘bot. It was nice to be considered as something else, even if it was by the Decepticons. Unconsciously, Bulkhead snuggled closer to the caretaker’s chest, pressing himself harder against the large full pouch, humming pleasantly.

“Aww, so cute,” the mech cooed. “But you better not take too much now, baby. Remember, we’re having special visitors today, and you need to still be a bit hungry for them,” the mech said as he gently pried Bulkhead away from his pouch. Bulkhead let go regretfully, with a small noise of distress. The caretaker was quick to pet him to comfort him. “Oh, baby, don’t be so sad! You’re going to get plenty of fuel, I promise you,” he said as he put Bulkhead back into the playpen. Bulkhead whined a bit but in the end, went on his hands and knees and crawled toward the center of the playpen, where some of the other Autobots were ‘playing’.

Yeah, he had almost forgotten about the ‘special visitors’, despite the various caretakers gushing about it. Apparently, some students from a Sparkling-care class were supposed to come and get some actual experience, ranging from basic maintenance to nursing. The nursing part especially, so the caretakers took care of not feeding the Sparklings too much while waiting for them.

Bulkhead didn’t really mind… he wasn’t that hungry yet. But he would have liked to snuggle more. Hmm, perhaps one of the others would be interested? he mused as he noticed one of the other Autobots, Cosmos, sitting in a corner, looked a bit dejected and made his way toward him, chirping to try and get the other mechling’s attention.

Cosmos perked up a bit and tentatively smiled at him, making Bulkhead’s face broke into a large grin as he settled down and sat by the other Autobot’s side. He liked Cosmos. The other ‘bot was nice and, well, cuddly. That, and he used to be one of Bulkhead’s idols when he had first been onlined and he was still learning about Cybertron; after all, without Cosmos’ work as an astronomer, they would never have managed to build the Space Bridges in the first place. Curiously, nobody seemed to pay him any respect anyway, and that was something Bulkhead could relate to. Perhaps it was the main reason he seemed to get along so well with Cosmos, despite both of their limited communication skills.

Now that they had shrunk, their ability to form coherent words had decreased as well. The oldest among their age group, Bulkhead had noticed, could still speak some, but the rest of them could only emit some chirping noises, and in some case, use a binary-sort of language that was rather rudimentary but got the point across. Sadly, not everyone seemed to be able to master it, Bulkhead among them, so most of them tended to just use whatever noises they could make, facial expressions, finger-pointing and various hand gestures. Oh, and use cubes to spell words every now and then.

He waved gently at Cosmos, who smiled and nodded, showing him the cubes he had been playing with. Now, perhaps Bulkhead would have found it humiliating a while back, but nowaday, he didn’t mind that much playing with such simple, boring games. They made a nice way to occupy their time instead of just brooding and recharging, like several of their fellow Autobots prefered to do. Besides, there was some fun in trying to sort them right to recreate words and images or holographic displays -- ‘cause some of the cubes and bricks they had at their disposition could project holographic pictures if assembled right.

Apparently, it was what Cosmos was trying to do, and he didn’t seem adverse to some help. Bulkhead nodded at him, chirped again and gently took a cube Cosmos was offering him in his larger hand. Even as he placed it on top of another, he couldn’t help but glance at the chubby other Sparkling, wondering.

Cosmos was older than him, probably by several thousands of stellar cycles, but for some reason, Project Regen seemed to have rendered him almost as young as Bulkhead himself -- even without the obvious size difference that pre-existed in their models. From what he had managed to gather as he tried to listen to the medics and nurses who came to check on them regularly and insure they were in good health, Cosmos’ more youthful regression had something to do with a glitch in the ‘regeneration’ process that had quickly been corrected, but not before a couple of ‘bots were affected, the Minibot among them.

And he always seemed so distressed… That made Bulkhead’s protective instincts surge forward more often than not. So, when it was nap time, he often cuddled with the Minibot, and handed him his personal plush toy, a stuffed Zapmouse he had named Glitchy, whenever Cosmos’ mood seemed down. That seemed stupid, he knew, but he had always felt small gestures like that could be helpful, and Cosmos seemed to appreciate them. Just like he appreciated it when Bulkhead handed him more colors or tried to finger paint him on paper whenever it was time for ‘art time’.

Yeah… life here wasn’t so bad, and he only regretted that his little buddy Bumblebee and the Boss-bot weren’t there. And Prowl and Ratchet too… And Sari. Couldn’t forget about little Sari. His Spark sunk a bit as he wondered what could have happened to their little organic friend. Decepticons -- or at least, the caretakers -- never spoke about Earth, so he had no way to knowing.

His shoulders sagged a bit, and Cosmos chirped questioningly at him, Bulkhead waving in turn to reassure him it was nothing serious. Was it really wrong… if he didn’t care as much as he ought to? Was it wrong for him to just want to hold Glitchy and drink his energon and play and not worry about the rest of the world, because there was nothing he could do about it anyway? It wasn't as if throwing temper tantrums, refusing to refuel or just act surly in general helped the situation in any way. If anything, it only made you more angsty, and disappointed the caretakers. And some of them were frankly nice ‘bots, as weird as it was to think of the Decepticons as ‘nice’ in any way.

Bulkhead glanced and smiled at Cosmos as the other ‘bot chirped again at him, chirping back and awkwardly patting his hand in turn. There was no need for him to start brooding now, he supposed. Better let things run their course and perhaps that someday, he’d be able to actually do something about the whole situation. In the meanwhile…

“... and here’s the last area, students, the Sparklings Ward,” a cultured voice indicated as the double doors leading to a maze of corridors opened, and almost all Sparklings stopped what their were doing as multiple ‘bots entered the area, femmes and mechs alike, youthful looking but adorned with some of the Medicorps typical identification glyphs. So these was the Sparkling-care class they had been warned about?

Bulkhead looked at them with interest. He didn’t recognize anyone on the first rank of mecha who was being greeted by the caretakers, but all had blue optics. His Spark flared. Autobots? Autobot medics? They hadn’t gotten shrunken like them? And the ‘Cons were actually teaching them how to care for, well, their Sparkling-sized selves? Wow! That was… that was totally unexpected, and quite welcome. Several shrunken Autobots started to make noise and try and attract their attention, only to be stared at with plain or horrified fascination. Bulkhead shuffled in place, Cosmos leaning against him for comfort.

Head tilted to the side, Bulkhead observed again the faces of the still adult-sized Autobots. He noticed there were a couple of mechs and femmes with red optics as well among them, and he nodded, realizing those ones were probably Decepticons following the same class. It felt a bit weird, but… well, if they were teaching every medic they hadn’t completely shrunken about Sparkling-care, the green mech supposed it was normal they had they mixed up with Decepticons Apprentices. Easier to teach everybody that way, right? At least, it sounded logical in his mind. He gazed at them again, optics slightly narrowed.

There was a mech here that looked a bit familiar… Yep, it looked like the old mech who used to check over his batch when he had first been onlined, albeit with a few vorns less and a smoother face. Funny, that; despite being old enough to have been in the war and sometimes telling them tales, Bulkhead had always thought the mech looked younger than Ratchet. Then again, Ratchet hadn’t sounded like a mech who cared much for personal maintenance for some reason, even if he rose the Pit if one of the team even dared to try and skip an appointment and…

His Spark skipped a bit. Ratchet. Ratchet was a medic. Ratchet was old… ish. A mech that had seemed to have about the same age that their team medic now looked… youngish. So was there a possibility that…?

He looked again at the rows of ‘students’, deaf to whatever the caretakers and the students were saying, or the ward manager for that matter. He was searching, searching… There! He’d recognize this broken, jagged chevron anywhere, and the visage underneath as well, even if it was younger and smoother and the belly far more flat. Ratchet. Ratchet was here.

His friend was here.

Bulkhead couldn’t help it. He chirped in joy, as loud as he could.


	3. Ratchet: Breastfeeding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet's 'practical session' almost overwhelms him. Thankfully, Decepticons caretakers are around... and someone else as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Direct continuation of Bulkhead: A Day in Life -- since, as I already mentioned, the continuity for this fic will tend to jump back and forth.

“Bulkhead? That’s really you, Youngling?” Ratchet asked with disbelief. The little being in his arms just… grinned, chirping happily, and the grin was so familiar that the medic sighed. “Oh yes, it’s you. Primus…”

It felt… surreal. Of course, he had intellectually known that his team members, who were much younger than he was, had probably been reduced to mere Sparklings. But to actually witness it, to actually hold one in his arms like he currently did… It was mind boggling, and he felt a bit faint. It was so weird; normally, it was Bulkhead who was supposed to be able to pick him up, not the reverse!

Of course, Bulkhead wasn’t a giant by Autobots standards anymore, was he? He was just a… a chubby Sparkling, that was rubbing his cheek against Ratchet’s chest with great enthusiasm. Ratchet twitched, a bit uneasy.

“Bulkhead? You can understand me, right?” There was a grin and another chirp, even as Bulkhead nodded. “Good. Then stop doing that,” he asked. Bulkhead’s smile faltered a bit, and Ratchet winced. “I’m happy to see you as well, Bulkhead, I truly am. But… It feels very weird,” he said awkwardly. Bulkhead chirped again, less loudly than before and… was he trying to pet Ratchet to comfort him?

Ratchet sighed. “Sorry, my friend,” he mumbled as he tried to adjust his grip on the shrunken form of his coworker and friend. “Primus, it’s so slagging bizzarre…”

“He’s cute, isn’t he?” a cheerful voice said to his audio, making Ratchet almost jump back in fright. He turned his head to the side to meet the gaze of a smiling ‘bot with red optics, who must have been at least two heads taller than Ratchet. He was smiling down at Bulkhead in a way that made Ratchet pause and hesitate to scream at him for having surprised him. Instead, he looked down at Bulkhead once more.

Cute wasn’t the first word he’d have used to describe his old comrade, but in that case… with his plump belly, little claws, big blue optics? “I guess so,” he muttered, shifting awkwardly.

“Who’s a cute Sparkling? Yes you are, yes, you are,” the mech sing-songed happily at Bulkhead who giggled -- actually giggled! -- in answer, clapping his hands together. “Are you hungry, sweetie?” Bulkhead nodded emphatically, to the mech’s amusement. “Well, the nice medibot here is going to give you sweet, sweet fuel, isn’t it great?” he cooed happily.

Okay, it was frankly strange. “You’re not forced to speak to him like that,” he found himself telling before he could stop himself. “He understands us just fine if we speak normally…”

“Ah, but a Sparkling should be addressed nicely, don’t you think?” the mech retorted back. “And besides,” he added with a glance at some of the others mechs in the room, who were awkwardly holding Sparklings with red optics and getting corrected on the best way to hold them without hurting or bother them, “even if he, like most Autobots, is smarter than the average Sparkling, he still remains just that: a baby in need of protection, care and love. My role as a caretaker is to give him just that until he can have a Mama and a Papa just for himself.” He sighed. “I’ll miss him once he gets adopted, I can tell you.”

Ratchet’s Spark sunk. “Did someone propose to take him already?” This was… this was bad. If Bulkhead was adopted, he’d had no way to ever see him again, or perhaps not for a very, very long time. And after finding back one member of his team, he didn’t want to lose him already…

“Sadly, not yet,” the caretaker said, shaking his head. “There are many Sparklings to adopt, and not enough people offering to foster them, though this is understandable. Most mechs prefer to wait until they are properly settled on Cybertron before looking up at adoption centers. Single mechs or femmes also tend to adopt less than couples, and for now, there aren’t so many families who came back and are ready to take in a new baby, since most of them have their own to take care of as it is. I’d like to take one myself, but with all the ones I have to care for here already… I wouldn’t have the proper time to raise him well. But, I won’t despair,” he said, raising his head and looking very serious. “This little fellow will get someone eventually. Just look at him, so chubby and perfect and so smart! He’s very good at fingerpainting, you know,” he said on the tone of confidence.

“I imagine he’d be; he had taken an interest in art back…” Ratchet found himself saying before stopping himself.

The caretaker watched him with consideration. “He’s a friend, then?” Ratchet the barest nod, refusing to say anything and steeling himself, his optics narrowing, silently challenging the ‘Con to say anything about that. To his surprise, the mech just nodded with a small, soft smile. “It’s good, young one. It’s good.” He glanced down at Bulkhead. “We know the situation must be very strange for you,” he added in a gentle tone that made Ratchet raise an optic ridge even as the ‘Con rubbed the back of his helm sheepishly. “Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m understating things. Simply… well, I wanted to say, ‘it’s for your own good we’re doing all that’, but I don’t think it’ll work on you, will it?” Ratchet’s optics said it all, and the ‘Con sighed. “Yeah, I figured. However, tell yourself that it’s certainly a gentler fate than what could have been done to you… and definitely a gentler one that what some of your so-called ‘leaders’ would have granted us,” he added, looking somber.

“... I know,” Ratchet finally after a moment of silence that was only broken by the noises of infants Cybertronians calling for attention, Bulkhead among them. The ‘Con was right; as humiliating and perturbing as it was to be made younger and helpless, it certainly was more… humane than be executed on sight or send away to rot in the Stockades. “Doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it, or forgive you,” he added. Just because he grudgingly accepted things could have been worse didn’t meant he agreed or was thankful for his current life and those of his few remaining friends. He hugged Bulkhead a bit closer to his frame, almost unconsciously.

That earned him a small, bitter smile. “I wouldn’t ask all of you to be. Just… do not hold everyone guilty for the whole situation, okay? We sure didn’t ourselves.” He shook his head, as if trying to clear his thoughts, before his face broke in a grin again. “Anyway, how about we feed that little guy, yes? That’s what you’re here to learn, right?

Ratchet almost choked. Oh, yes. Right. He was here… to get some ‘practical’ experience on nursing a Sparkling. According to their ‘teachers’, theory was fine and all, but students still had to go through some practice before they graduated, just to be sure they would actually be able to apply what they were being taught once they were allowed back into the general population and manning the various clinics across the planet. As much as he wanted to scoff at the idea… well, Ratchet had to admit that he was now frozen in place, mind racing as he contemplated the small being in his arms. The small being that he knew as an adult, who was a good friend and companion and who he was supposed to feed from the strange devices installed in his chest…

“Here, sit down,” the ‘Con voice said, and Ratchet found himself gently guided down on a… a chair that hadn’t been there a moment sooner? Where had it come from? Oh, right, foldable thing kept in subspace, his mind supplied as his vision seemed to stop swirling. There were several deployed across the room, where his fellow students sat, each holding a Sparkling and being coached on the best way to hold them by the various caretakers. Most looked as lost and out of their depth as Ratchet felt and probably looked.

“Mah, mah, calm down,” the ‘Con next to him chuckled. “How about we start simple? This little fellow is Bulkhead, as you know. I’m Rattle. And you are…?”

“Ratchet. I’m Ratchet,” the white and red medibot said, blinking, trying to concentrate. His hands tightened slightly around the loose fabric covering Bulkhead’s bottom -- and by the Allspark, it sounded and looked a bit ridiculous, but there it was and his hold slipped, Bulkhead chirping in surprise as he almost slipped out of the medic’s arms.

“Careful here!” Rattle said as he put his hands over Ratchet’s owns. “Now, you hold him like that, see? Tighten your hold, but not too much; you need to hold Bulkhead steady, but allow him some leeway if he wants to squirm to change his hold over your pouch’s nub, yeah?”

The pouches… Right, Ratchet thought, taking a deep breath through his vents. Then a second one. And a third. And… a couple more, until he felt he was getting back to his normal self. “The Pit did happen?” he mumbled. “I thought I was…” he trailed off, feeling ashamed someone had seen him like that. Seeing and knowing the others weren’t faring much better was barely any consolation.

“It does that, sometimes,” Rattle said gently. “You wouldn’t believe the number of new Carriers or new caretakers who fumble because they feel overwhelmed at the last moment, despite saying themselves they were ready to feed the little ones for the first time. I certainly did myself,” he chuckled in good humor, before becoming more serious. “That’s why we insist everyone sit down before filling their pouch. Experienced caretakers and Carriers can do it standing without problem, but new ones? Definitely better they remain sitting until they know what they’re doing. And it helps when the first Sparkling you feed is a calm one.” He gently caressed Bulkhead’s cheek, and the shrunken Autobot thrilled. Ratchet just blinked; he hadn’t thought his friend would have such a positive reaction to a ‘Con’s touch. Then again, as far as Decepticons went, this one was fairly pleasant… And he probably had taken care of him since the first solar cycle he had been shrunken, so the medibot supposed it made sense.

“I see…” Ratchet mumbled as he peered down at Bulkhead, who watched him him with a small, sorry smile and big optics, cheek pressing against Ratchet’s chestplates and tapping them in an almost impatient way. That almost made the medic laugh. “Impatient, are you?”

“He often is,” Rattle said, nodding, grinning. “He’s not a fussy Sparkling to take care of. He feeds regularly, without fighting, he goes down for his nap when we told him so, he doesn’t throw toys at the caretakers’ head, he doesn’t fight with the other Sparklings,...” he listed, before sighing. “I really wish someone would adopt him already; I’d miss taking care of him, of course, but he should have good parents to raise him.”

“Could I adopt him?” Ratchet blurted out suddenly, surprised at his own outburst. In his arms, Bulkhead blinked and thrilled, obviously taken with the idea. Rattle blinked too before looking thoughtful and finally, grimacing. Ratchet’s Spark sunk; if he had to venture a guess, then he’d say the answer was…

“I… don’t think you can,” the Decepticon said regretfully. “I mean, I suppose an Autobot should be able to adopt later on, but at this point? There’s no system in place allowing still adult former Autobot to formally adopt an Autobot Sparkling. Perhaps, later on…” he trailed off. “I mean, it’s not like we intend to stop you or any other who would like to to actually adopt! I’m sure the law will be amended later. But at the moment, with you deep into your studies, without an income and a job, as a single parent… That alone would be a turn off,” he explained awkwardly.

“I see,” Ratchet said simply, Spark sinking further even as Bulkhead chirped sadly.

“Perhaps, if you had a mate, preferably a well-established Decepticon…” Rattle suggested, only to raise his hands in defense when Ratchet glared at him, scorning. “I’m just saying! Autobots as single parents can’t adopt, but a mixed couple can, as far as I know. And, if you were in couple with another ‘Con… there would be nothing stopping you from just walking to the admission office and ask for the paperwork, and then: tadaaa! You’re going back home tonight with your baby,” Rattle said, rubbing the back of his helm.

Ratchet pursed his lips. “... I fear I cannot,” he just said, though he looked gently and apologetically at Bulkhead, who, bless his Spark, just patted him with a knowing, understanding look. “Sorry, my friend.”

“Don’t be,” Rattle advised. “It’s just how things are. Now, how about you feed him, yes?” he said with more cheer, and Ratchet nodded reluctantly.

Opening his chestplate to the layer where the flat pouches laid was, if not perfectly natural, than simple enough. Filling them… was also easy enough, once he managed to calm himself enough to send the right command. He watched the previously flat pouch start to expand and fill with fascinated optics, and some uneasiness. He had seen pouches on holofiles, and on holovids, of course, as they were part of the courses. He had also seen real ones before, when they had seen a practical demonstration in class, and he had even touched a pair, to familiarize himself with the shape and matter, which had been embarrassing as it was.

It was however the very first time he saw his owns and in a way, it felt mesmerizing… and sickening. Knowing you had a part was a thing; using them was another. His reaction upon his first time… ‘interfacing’ had been pretty much the same. Not that he had tried it much; mainly, he had taken advantage of the ‘toys’ distributed to the students, in case they ‘didn’t feel comfortable exploring their array with someone else’ and of Ambulon’s half-sparked offer, which had been… interesting, he supposed.

Still, for all his uneasiness at displaying those two round things, Bulkhead and Rattle seemed pretty happy with the result.

“Very good,” Rattle praised. He peered a bit at the two pouches. “Hmm, not a bad size. The nubs are large, which is good; it definitely help when you feed larger Sparklings,” he explained for Ratchet’s sake. “It allow them to suckle more at once and satiate them faster.”

“Joy,” the medic deadpanned, feeling a bit uncomfortable at the comment, much like he had felt uncomfortable when Ambulon had spoken of the ridges on his spike, or the way his valve rim stretched. That might have been normal for the ‘Cons to hear and comment about, but not for him! He startled a little as he felt Bulkhead rub his face against one of the pouches, blinking at the sensation. The elastic, tender matter was filled with little sensors that just seemed to… tingle. It was very disconcerting. Not bad, not really, but very strange. “Uh…” he looked at Rattle, at lost.

Logically, he knew he should have… put the nub part of his pouches into Bulkhead’s mouth and that, still in theory, his shrunken team member would have started to suck on them to extract fuel and feed himself, but for some reason… He couldn’t. He just couldn’t move, or do it right.

The ‘Con, thankfully, didn’t say anything, just smiled and helped him reposition Bulkhead’s body once more, just so the diminutive Autobot’s face was pressed over one of Ratchet’s pouch, little mouth right next to the nub. The little one just had to turn his head to take it into his mouth and… do his thing. Would it be painful? He didn’t think so -- not really; the people who had given them lectures and demonstrations, who had allowed them to touch, the holovids,... all said it wasn’t, though it could be a little uncomfortable if the nub part of the pouches was extra sensitive, or if a Sparkling bite down, or if he suckled so much it overworked the sensors…

“Yiip!” he yelped suddenly, optics widening as he saw that Bulkhead, not privy to his self-doubt, has naturally latched upon the closest nub, holding it firmly in his mouth and… sucking on it steadily. Oh, Primus… It did felt weird, very weird… And very sensitive, too, he thought, wincing. And on top of that, he didn’t feel anything coming out.

“I… nothing is coming out; is that normal?” he said, glancing at the hovering caretaker.

“Yes, don’t worry,” Rattle reassured him. “Your actual feeding protocol can take a few kliks properly kicking in. There’s a filter in the nub, you see? A small filtered hose that allow the fuel to flow from the rest of the lines to the nub itself and be sucked up by the Sparkling…”

“... and the fuel can take a few moment to properly pass the filter the first time, because it’s dense. And it’s normal it’s dense, because it’s a protection against leaks when the pouches aren’t in use. Filter gets less dense and calibrate itself to be thinner after the first few times. Right; I had forgotten,” Ratchet mumbled, remembering his lessons. Damn panic; it made him forget everything. The Decepticons, he decided dejectedly, were right to have them go through actual practice.

“Think nothing of it,” the caretaker advised. “You won’t be the last one who needs a moment to get his bearings back. Now, how does it feel?”

“Weird,” Ratchet said frankly as he looked down once more at Bulkhead and actually felt the energon leave his pouch for the greedy mouth suckling it. “Weird… but not… not as bad as I feared,” he admitted. The sensation was… it wasn’t exactly hard to get used to, but it felt like nothing he had ever experienced, and he needed time to decipher if he truly liked it or not.

Rattle nodded wisely. “It’s good, then. Now, don’t try to regulate the flow yourself,” he advised. “It’s the Sparkling himself who will, by instinct when it feeds the first time, and by automatism later on. In little Bulkhead’s case, he’s probably going to suckle with more strength than normal at first; your pouches aren’t exactly like mine; they’re, for lack of a better term, brand news and unused, so they’ll be most likely harder to suckle from. If you feel any real discomfort, you must tell me -- or him, since he can understand you, unlike normal Sparklings.”

“Noted. Say…” Ratchet hesitated. “I have heard medics could produce a special brand of Sparkling energon... ?” he trailed off.

Rattle nodded. “More or less; medics can produce medical grade energon with their pouches, should they have the right modes installed, and feed it to their patients that way,” he explained. “It was pretty much in use during the Great War, though I’m not sure if you Autobots ever had records… Anyway, it helped refuel a mech quickly if he had lost too much. Medical grade energon isn’t recommended for Sparklings, though; it’s still too strong for their little tanks. But with added programs, it can be filtered down and feed to them without risks,” he added. “Most nurses have it, and no few caretakers, especially those specialized in the care of elderly mechs -- personally, I don’t, but I plan to get the programs installed someday; it’d be a great help around here.”

“I see,” Ratchet nodded, thoughtful. “So, it all comes down to upgrades made on personal choices? It isn’t forced down upon you?”

“Certainly not!” Rattle exclaimed. He peered at Ratchet, thoughtful too. “You ask because of the presence of… of the pouches and everything else, don’t you?” he asked, making a vague gesture toward the apex of his thighs, and sighed at the medic curt nod. “I see. Well, pouches and everything are standard; you’ll find them on every mech and femme, or you were supposed to. You Autobots… you were mutilated,” he said after a moment of hesitation. “We just… gave you back what was stolen from you. And I know it’s a shock for some -- okay, for a lot of people -- but we just gave you the basics. Anything else… it’s personal choices and requests.”

“So if someone wants to have his interface array or pouches removed…?” Ratchet asked, waiting for an answer.

“... I guess it’d be granted. But only after a battery of tests and medical advices and appointments with the shrinks to see why one would want to,” the caretaker answered reluctantly. “Some people who have been… abused,” he said hesitantly, “they sometimes ask for that. Or people who are frankly asexual, meaning they have no interest and no need for the parts, but it’s something I’m not too sure about. You’d better ask some of the teachers on the Psychology courses. Me, I just followed Sparkling Care.”

“You have actual medical training?” Ratchet asked, an optic ridge raised, in between two glances at Bulkhead’s feeding form.

“All caretakers do,” Rattle shrugged. “We need to; we never know if a Sparkling won’t get injured by playing, or if we won’t have to deal with a medical emergency, like a Spiderbot bite -- and yes, if the thing breaks into an energon line, it can turn into an emergency; ever seen lines getting necrosed due to venom? I did, and it’s not pretty -- or an allergy to fuel components. We need to be able to act accordingly and secure the kid until a true Doc can be here. So, yeah, we do have some medical training.”

“You take it very seriously. The Sparklings,” Ratchet said quietly.

“Of course! We kinda went to war so they wouldn’t become extinct, did we not? Even if it wasn’t the one and main reason,” was the quiet answer. There was a moment of silence, as both watched Bulkhead happily and easily suckled from Ratchet, and sometimes glanced around to see how Ratchet’s fellow students farred. Some did seem to find the whole experience worth it, some seemed utterly terrified, some seemed to take to it as it they had done it all their life, and one or two could be heard swearing they would never do that again.

Ratchet himself felt divided over the matter. On one hand, it was something that didn’t exactly feel natural, despite all proofs stating it was. On the other… it wasn’t that bad, and he supposed he could grow used to it. Only time and experience could tell, he supposed.

“Say, do you mind staying alone with him a few cycles?” Rattle asked suddenly, startling the medibot. “I’d like to go pick up his Zap-Mouse plushy in his crib,” the caretaker said. “If he refuels well, he’s going to go napping right after, and he’s alway happier when he has his teddy with him,” he explained. “It won’t take long. You have him in good hands, yeah? And if there is a problem, you can just raise your voice and call to one of my coworkers, yeah?”

Bulkhead with a ‘teddy’, pretty much like those small humans on Earth? The thought was mind-boggling, but Ratchet nodded all the same. “Sure. No… no problem,” he said awkwardly as he glanced down at Bulkhead again.

“That’s great! Now, be right back,” Rattle said cheerily as he stopped hovering and walked toward a door in the back, supposedly the direction of the ‘dormitory area’. Ratchet didn’t watch him go; he was too busy contemplating Bulkhead’s frame and happy face, and wondering if him too would have been as… relaxed and content had he been in the younger ‘bot situation.

*-*-*-*-*

“I was very surprised when I got your ping, Doctor Hook,” Rattle babbled as he walked down the hall to the ‘dormitory’, his guest walking with him as he did so. “It’s not every solar cycle a lowly caretaker like me get a message from such a renowned surgeon... “

“And I won’t make a habit out of it either,” Hook said smoothly. “However, I have recently developed an… interest in someone who, sadly, doesn’t seem to pick on the fact I’m very interest in him.” He scowled a bit. “Now, I am a patient mech, and I don’t want to seem untoward with him but frankly, his attempts at avoiding me when all I want is to propose we take a drink together are starting to annoy me.”

Rattle nodded politely as he entered the dormitory and went to Bulkhead’s berth; even if he hadn’t told the full truth to the Autobot medic currently nursing one of his favorite charges. Still, he couldn’t help but glance at the Decepticon medic following him. “I’m sorry to hear that, Sir,” he said politely. And in a way, he was; it was never fun when one wanted to court and the other wasn’t interested… or who didn’t notice you were trying to court him. “But I fail to see why you’re telling me that. Are you trying to woo one of my coworkers?”

Hook snorted. “Of course not. I’m more interested into one of my students.”

Rattle’s optics widened. One of his students? Well, there was nothing against it, provided the student was ‘of age’, and that the teacher could prove he wasn’t trading good notes for interfacing favors. Still, it was unusual, and hearing the student didn’t even notice his teacher’s interest? How peculiar, especially given the number of porn movies and romance or erotic novels with such a setting. There wasn’t a Decepticon youth who hadn’t dreamed of…

Wait. Not a Decepticon, then; a Decepticon would have picked up on the interest and cashed on it, especially given Hook’s reputation, wealth and standing in society. An Autobot. It had to be an Autobot. Well, that complicated matters, Rattle knew. Most Autobots weren’t yet at the stage where they would consider going out with a Decepticon, even less so Bond with him. It really had to sting, he decided as he picked up the stuffed Zap-Mouse toy belonging to Bulkhead; to have honest to Primus feelings for a mech, and not being able to act upon them because the mech was skittish. What a pity and a waste. He wondered, still, what kind of mech the surgeon may have had… fallen… for…

“Sir… would you be interested in Ratchet?” he asked, surprised.

“Indeed,” the purple and green mech said, smirking. “He is a… very interesting character,” he alluded simply, refusing to say more at this point.

“I suppose he is,” the caretaker said. “Still… well, I don’t see what I could do to help you here, Sir. I just met him for the first time today, after all, and I don’t know him…”

“It is not about him that I wanted to talk here, caretaker Rattle,” the surgeon said smoothly. “Well, not directly at any rate, no. I wished to speak more about one of your charges. The little green mech he’s currently caring for,” he insisted at Rattle’s blank look. “What can you tell me about him -- and them in general?”

Rattle hesitated. Hook’s interest in Ratchet might be sweet, if the Autobot medic ever noticed he was being courted. On the other… well, Hook was known to be somewhat devious in order to get what he wanted, and the caretaker wasn’t fond of the idea a sweet Sparkling like Bulkhead could get mixed up into one of his plans. Then again… there was a nice possibility here for Bulkhead to have a family, if he read things right. “Bulkhead is a sweet little Sparkling. He’s about 10 vorns old, and he’s very bright,” he said easily. He leaned forward and whispered. “You didn’t heard it from me, but some say a big, green Autobot was the one who build the Space Bridge that allowed our victory, almost all by himself.”

Hook’s optic ridges rose. “Are you saying…?”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” Rattle temporized. “At any rate, Bulkhead was on the same team as medic Ratchet when they served the corrupt Autobot Government. They were friends, at the very least, and Ratchet seems to care a lot for him. He straight out asked if he would be allowed to adopt him,” he confided.

“Is that so?” Hook leaned forward, optics gleaming. “Interesting. Do you think he would have made such an offer for any Sparkling, or is it the identity of that specific Sparkling which prompted him?”

“The latter,” Rattle said after a moment. “I don’t think he’d have made such a proposition for anyone else, not given how most Autobots are still… shaken by the changes in their lives, himself included. In this case, it is because he’s close to the mech and want to keep him safe, I guess. And what better way to assure himself Bulkhead will be, if not to become his parent?” He sighed. “He’d be good at it, too. He was such a… a natural, breastfeeding little Bulkhead -- even if he probably didn’t notice.”

“Yes, I had noticed,” Hook nodded, thinking of the few moments he had spend observing the mech, looking through an observation window, out of sight but focused on Ratchet and the green bundle of joy in his arms. That had been… very cute and endearing. Why, with some more purple on him, he could have easily pictured the Sparkling as his, being taken care of by its Carrier.

Hmm. Bulkhead might not be his Sparkling, in the sense he hadn’t Sired or Carried him, but that could very well change, on a legal standpoint. And once he had the Sparkling… how hard would it be to actually grab the future Carrier’s attention? Not so much, he supposed, especially if he proved himself as being a good Sire and dropping the right hints at the right time. Besides, the little mechling was apparently a construction genius or something, and Hook could appreciate having a genius as Creation.

He nodded to himself, smirking, before glancing at Rattle. “Tell me, caretaker… How hard it is to actually adopt a Sparkling?”


	4. Hook: First Glance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just how did Hook notice Ratchet for the first time?

“So this is him?”

“Yes, Doctor,” the male nurse by his side said as he quickly checked over the monitors and nodded in satisfaction. “We managed to stabilize his health, but Ward Manager Getafix wished for you to see him before planning for an operation.”

“Hmmm…” There was a pensive pause. “Can you give me his charts and his files, Onguent?”

“Right away, Doctor Hook,” the nurse chirped as he moved to the side to sort through the various datapads he carried around.

Hook raised an optic ridge, but said nothing. Such disorganisation wasn’t something he liked to tolerate, and had they been in his private clinic back on New Kaon, he would have had words with Onguent about it. Patients individual files ought to be properly arranged for immediate reading, after all. However, it wasn’t his clinic; it was the Sparkling ICU Ward of the brand new Protihex General Hospital, and currently the only specialized Ward they had been able to fully equip on Cybertron. As such, all the special and delicate cases were rerooted here, insuring doctors and nurses alike were swarmed with work. For this and for this alone, Hook was willing to let it slide.

At any rate, it gave him a few minutes to detail his future patient.

The Sparkling was… pathetic looking, Hook decided as he looked down at the little form sprawled into the sterile confinement idea, hooked to various IV and machines by the way of electrodes registering his Sparkbeats and their intensity as well as measuring its radiation level. Some had been disposed over the helmed to follow spikes in processor activity and monitor them. All in one, it showed just how bad the little one’s health was. Truly, it was almost Sparkwrenching, but Hook was barely swayed.

One didn’t specialize in Sparkling Surgery if he or she didn’t have a strong Spark and steel for processors. Of course, he didn’t enjoy seeing a young one in pain if he could help it, but he wasn’t a bleeding-Spark who would weep over the littlest harm.

Granted, in that case, it wasn’t exactly what he would call a ‘little harm’...

“Here, Doctor,” Onguent said as he handed him a datapad that Hook turned on with a frown. Let see just how much damages he wasn’t seeing…

“... and now, class, I demand your attention,” a voice said, literally booming in the corridor, making Hook pause before he even read a line and made a few Sparkling whimpers in frightened surprise; the surgeon could also hear them through the walls in the adjoining rooms. The purple and green mech looked over his shoulder, glaring at the Ward door. It was closed, of course, and still the voice reached through, so loud the mech speaking could have been in here already. A few nurses dropped what they were doing to try and sooth the younger, more frightened patients. They passed before the room Hook was in quickly, looking slightly exasperated, and the surgeon could hear them gently cooing at their patients between two booming words as well.

Next to him, Onguent put the datapads in an awkward pile on a chair and sighed. “Aww, mech… sound like they picked Crimp for a class tour again.”

Hook glanced at him. “He’s always so loud?” he asked. He wasn’t overly familiar with Crimp, as they had never been stationed together. The mech was a general practitioner, who did more home visits than anything else. Oh, the mech knew his stuff, Hook had to admit… even if what he knew was very much the basis of what Hook considered true medical care. He’d give the mech points for his willingness to teach, though, as Crimp gave regular lectures about common Sparkings diseases and their symptoms and did a good job of teaching first responders and First Cycle medical students.

Onguent sighed. “Well… most of the time, Sir,” the nurse said with a look of excuse on his face.

“Couldn’t they have asked someone else to give that tour? And why is he even taking the students here? They shouldn’t be allowed in at all,” the surgeon grumbled.

The nurse shrugged. “I guess he had a few free megacycles?” he guessed aloud. “And we can’t exactly keep the students out; they need to know the area and how to orientate and circulate in the hospital, Sir,” he pointed out. “And besides, they do need to see actual cases, just to let everything sink down, right, Sir?”

Hook grumbled. It was, sadly, true enough. These mechs and femmes being shown around were the future nurses and doctors that would populate this hospital, as well as all the ones scattered over Cybertron; Sparklings lives were going to end up between their hands. Decepticons born and raised students already knew how serious it was. Autobots, who never saw a Sparkling before, and whose knowledge mainly came from books and what they were slowly being taught…

Probably not so much.

The surgeon sighed. So much for some peace and quiet to read his newest patient’s files. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind and decypher the first few lines. Even so, he couldn’t ignore Crimp’s voice as he continued his little speech about how the Sparkling ICU Ward was ‘the place where Sparklings and Younglings who were to go or came out of surgery rested in’.

“Of course, not only post or pre-ops ends up in the Ward, although they account for the majority of the residents. You’ll also find Sparklings recovering from potentially deadly diseases -- though most of them are confined in special sterile rooms at the last floor of the Ward, and thus you won’t be visiting them any time soon. There’ll also be Sparklings whose health is dire due to problem during the Carrying process…”

Hook listened some more, nodding slightly here and there. Well, Crimp might be loud, but at least he was thorough, easily covering main cases and slightly rarer situation without letting the students think for a moment they were less serious. Good for him. He could hear the sounds of multiple pairs of pedes dragging themselves in the hallway, and knocks on door to politely ask to enter, even as the booming voice gave a brief summary of each patient case. More voices, sounding like whispers next to their teachers, raised up in questioning tones, followed by booming answers.

Hook’s lips lifted slightly into a smirk. Sounded like there were interested and inquisitive students around, going by the way some spoke. There was one particular voice that rose each time the group stopped down the hall, slowly making their way toward this place. Eh. Good for them; intelligent and inquisitive students made the best medics once they had some practice down the belt.

He shook his head again, absorbing himself into the Sparkling’s file while Onguent cooed at the little being who was starting to cough. Let’s see… Hum. Oh. Oooh. Ouch.

“... Too bad the files don’t mention who exactly who applied Project Regen to this mechling,” he finally said, sounding even and gathering Onguent’s sharp attention. “Because I really wish to have words with whoever was stupid enough to do so on a mech who was obviously consuming intoxicating substances on regular basis to the point of being an addict, without bothering to flush his systems and make him go on rehab before he did!” he snarled, optics twitching as he pondered the level of stupidity it implied.

Onguent winced. “You wouldn’t be the only one who’d want to do so, Sir. You should have heard Ward Manager Getafix when we first had the little one put in our care after his systems stalled at the crèche,” he said, looking at the transparent containment unit, a hand on the glass panels. “The moment he was rushed in, we did a battery of tests. I don’t think I had heard Getafix swear that much, ever, and it grew worse as we started to get the full list of what trace substances were in that baby’s systems: simultronics, crysmag, Angolmois, syk,... “ He sighed. “I don’t know how that Beachcomber fellow managed to live so long when hooked on so much harmful substances, but it did damages.”

“Indeed,” Hook agreed as he went further down the file. “I see you managed to flush them out?”

“Yes Doctor,” the nurse approved. “We also managed to repair some of the systems and change part of his energon lines, the one we could access without deep surgery anyway.” He paused. “We did our best, but…” he shrugged and looked at the Sparkling again. Tiny blue optics were focused on them, and Onguent smiled sadly. “He’s in such bad shape… And there’s only so much we can do at once; he can’t handle several heavy surgery in a row, and there’s many systems which are still in risk of failing. I think Ward Manager Getafix wanted to give the priority to his fuel tank… ?”

“I can see why,” Hook mumbled as he peered at the diagnosis. Beachcomber’s fuel tank was ready to just give out and rupture, thus why he was only fed by IV, sending energon and coolant directly into his lines. Exchanging it for a new one was indeed important. But to Hook, it wasn’t a priority.

“I’d prefer to start with his coolant lines,” he informed the nurse.

Onguent blinked. “The coolant lines? You’re sure?” Then he chastised himself. “Excuse me, Sir, I don’t want to doubt you, but…”

“At this point, keeping his body heat regulated is more important than feeding him normally,” the surgeon said, ignoring the interruption. “IV works fine, even if the process isn’t comfortable the slightest. The coolant lines, however, are ready to fail. The containment unit help decrease this possibility by externally adjusting the heat to suit the frame’s needs, but it’s not viable on the long term.” He paused, letting the information sink in. Onguent grimaced, but nodded. “Coolant lines first,” Hook repeated. “That’ll allow us to move him out of the containment unit earlier. You’ll probably have to cloth him still, though. Once we’re done, the rest of the energon lines that were attacked by drugs and acids will follow, after which we’ll be ready to move to the fuel tank. If we do so beforehand, then I fear his fuel lines will not be able to handle regular energon again. We risk leaks,” he finished grimly.

“That bad, then?” the nurse whispered, looking sadly down at the little blue form.

Hook nodded curtly. He opened his mouth to speak further when the door to the room opened.

“And here’s the next case, Younglings. It’s… oh, hello, Hook,” Crimp said jovially, saluting. Hook shuttered his optics, counting to ten to calm down as he heard the sounds of pedes scrambling down to a halt. All at his reading and diagnosis, he had temporarily forgotten about the generalist and the students. He should have had locked the door… 

“Crimp,” he said evenly as he onlined his optics and turned toward the other medic. Here he was, green and red and orange, big grin on his face, large red optics glinting merrily as several Autobot medics and a few Decepticons students peered around, staying in the corridor or not going farther than the doorway, nodding or mumbling politely at him. Except one, Hook noticed. A white and red Autobot with a broken chevron. He almost raised an optic at that; shouldn’t that thing had been repaired when they applied Project Regen?

But, nevermind that. “I’m busy, Crimp. I have a young patient here who needs rest…”

“We’re not here for long,” the large mech said reassuringly. “Just showing the younger generation around and showing them how diverse the patients are. Hey, could you explain to them what your patient suffer from and what treatment you’re going to give him? Please?” Hook raised an optic ridge and Crimp insisted. “Come on, Hook! These mechs could use all the pointers you can give them. Besides, it’d be an early start for them; most of them are supposed to integrate your class in a few orns,” he tried to cajole.

That made the surgeon raise an optic ridge higher. “Oh? Is that so? You do have an interest in Sparkling-surgery?” he asked around to the shifting and somewhat uneasy students. “How… unexpected,” he drawled.

“Why?” someone grunted. Hook’s optics focused on the mech he had noticed earlier, the one with a broken chevron. “You think we can’t get interested in new fields?”

“Ratchet,” Crimp warned, though his tone was rather light. “Don’t mind him, Hook. Some of our students are the grumpy type,” he chuckled. Hook just looked at him blankly until the chuckled eased into an embarrassed cough. “Anyway… patient?” he asked almost helpfully.

Hook looked at… Ratchet again, taking note of the stubborn frown he was wearing. Hmm… “Sparkling going through the after-effect of substances abuse,” he finally said. “Fuel tank, energon lines and coolant lines are damaged, vents aren’t looking too great either, though they can still be saved. The fuel tank and most lines, however, will need to be changed through several surgeries.”

“Why? Normally, a single surgery should be enough to change everything. You keep your patient under long enough, and you should be able to do everything in one go, no?” A small femme Youngling asked curiously, red optics marking her as a kindled Youngling of Decepticon origin.

“Because his systems are too unstable,” the answer shot… from the white and red mech with a broken chevron, even before Hook opened his mouth to answer to what he considered to be a stupid question. “I’m no expert on Sparklings, but their small size means that sedation has to be carefully dosed, made custom for the one it’s going to be knocking out. In cases like that, it means you can’t keep the sedation going for too long, less you do damage to the ‘bot’s systems,” the mech grunted.

“Correct,” Hook nodded, a corner of his lips lifting. Hmm, nice to see someone who wasn’t a total idiot… and not too bad looking, he supposed, as he looked a bit more closely at the mech. “But it’s not all the answer. Care to take a guess at what the other reason is?” he baited the students, optics focused on the smart one.

“... fuel rerooting,” the mech finally said, and Hook’s optics flashed in approval. “Changing lines is a delicate process in itself. Usually, you make sure the fuel is contained in the tank and clamp the lines you wish to work on, or you divert the fuel with extra tubing. But if the tank itself is damaged… you’d need an exterior filter, an artificial outside tank in which to reroot all the lines,” he finally said, blue optics narrowed in concentration. “It would mean draining them, aside of the bar necessary fluid amount to keep a mech functioning. Doing so is already uncomfortable enough for a normal sized mech, but for someone smaller… Can it lead to glitches in the system?” he asked with interest.

“It can become quite painful, if the tubing and parts used aren’t correctly calibrated, and if it takes too long,” Hook nodded. He looked at the students. “Energon flowing into new tubing can hurt Sparklings, because their systems calibrations tend to be easily thrown off by the slightest things. Usually, you’ll see that in young Sparklings who got sick; their body takes a while to readjust to a correct system setting, especially when it comes to temperatures. This is why Sparklings occasionally wear clothes, as some of you should already know,” he doctored, giving a pointed look at the Decepticon students, who shuffled nervously or swallowed, far too aware of the implied critic Hook was giving them. They had been Sparklings themselves; surely, they should know more than Autobots who never dealt with such problems?

Crimp coughed. “Well, I guess it is it, folks,” he said with what Hook considered far too much cheer. “Thank for the impromptu lesson, Hook, but I think we need to be on our way; wouldn’t want to keep you from your work,” he added with a wink before turning and starting to push the students who had entered out of the room.

Hook nodded sharply and let saw them out with relief; he dealt with enough Younglings as it was, and he wasn’t exactly willing to see them outside of classes hours if he could help it, especially when there were other matters demanding his attention.

Still, there was one mech he watched go out and let his gaze linger on for a good moment as he turned and joined his comrade. Ratchet, was it?

Hook’s lips twitched into a smile. Such an… interesting and not-bad-looking mech. He looked forward seeing more of him in the coming orns...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a very long chapter this time, but be patient; next one will be much longer and will see Ambulon as one of the main protagonists. :)


	5. Ratchet, Ambulon: Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In between two bits of reading, Ratchet has a long conversation with his roommate. Ambulon has some explanations to give, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very long chapter this one, with a couple of revelations. Enjoy! =D

Protihex Medical Mechanical’s Dormitories weren’t bad, per say, Ratchet thought as he reached behind his back to move a cushion in better position, but when you had been used to own your own apartment/studio, where you lived alone, and used to be free to go where you wanted and when you wanted, it could become quite stiffening. That, at least, hadn’t changed much since the time he had been a student the first time around… except the rooms were probably larger to accommodate taller and bulkier students, he acknowledged.

There were, as far as Ratchet remembered and knew, no individual rooms in the dorms. Students always roomed by pair, though there were a couple of rooms for three on each level, making use of additional place near the stairs or lifts. Tenants’ names were scribbled on the door, for easy identification and orientation.

Standard rooms usually contained two berths, one on each side of the room, and two desks, one for each resident, rested in an L-shape with the berth. A couple of shelves were put above the berth for personal possessions, and a drawer or two were installed under the berth to put bookfiles or various studying-related item. Simple computers and lamps were installed on each desk, allowing the students to access the library catalogue or do research and write homework -- no way to utilise them to communicate, though. There were enough space to move around, of course, but privacy was pretty much limited, only granted by the use of a folding screen that separated the room in two equal parts.

Walls were painted in neutral, dull colors, which made everything look bleak. Thankfully, students were allowed to hang decorations as they wished -- within reasons, of course -- in order to personalize their rooms. First Aid, he knew, had pinned up a poster of Rosanna, whereas Kaput, his roommate, had hung out paysage pictures. Ratchet’s own roommate, Ambulon, had decorated his half of the room with spatial maps… and he tended to look curiously at Ratchet’s own choice of decoration.

“Seriously, Ratchet, what is it?” he kept asking.

The white and red mech just grunted, never offering a clear answer. How could he explain it was supposed to be a portrait? A very weird portrait, Ratchet knew, and it held little likeness to the model, but it was one of Bulkhead’s paintings. It was one of the rare items he had managed to save from their Earth base, by pure luck. He had been holding it, looking at it with a frown, not sure if that ‘cubist’ look really suited Sari, when there had been an alert, and by reflex, Ratchet had pulled it in subspace. It had remained here for orbital cycles, forgotten, until their eventual defeat. After which, when he had been stripped down from his weapons and from anything he still held in subspace, Sari’s ‘cubist’ portrait had reappeared.

Ratchet had thought the thing would get destroyed for sure, but no; instead, Bulkhead’s painting was tagged down as belonging to Ratchet, put into storage, then given back to him with a couple of other belongings he had thought he’d never see again. Most of them, after all, he had left behind on Cybertron more than fifty stellar cycles ago, before they crashed on Earth. By all logic, they should have been lost. They weren’t though, and it had soothed something deep into the medic’s Spark to find them again after so long, innocently waiting for him in a box on the berth the first time he had crossed the threshold and entered his new dorm room.

Bulkhead’s ‘art’, his sole portrait of the little organic they called friend, as weird as it was, was probably the most precious thing he currently held. Thus why, despite not loving the painting that much, he had hung it above his desk, easily able to see it while resting on his berth, and whenever he felt low, he contemplated it and thought of happier times.

Thankfully, he rarely needed to; his solar cycles were filled with so much classes, reading and information dumping he needed to assimilate that feeling sorry for himself and angsty was relegated to the background, at least until he had the time to deal with it.

He reached behind his back again to move the cushion, silently cursing. The berth soft padding was nice, and so was the additional cushions and covers they had been provided with -- a novelty that hadn’t existed the first time around -- but he wished the berth itself had been reclinable. As it wasn’t, he was forced to use what he could to keep himself in position, and the cushions had the nasty habit to slip. He shifted them again, leaned against them, testing if this time they’d stay in place, and sighed before continuing his reading.

“ _... thus one of the main source of dissonance between specialists; as we known, conception occurs within the reproduction chamber when the self-replicating nanites contained in the transfluid find favorable conditions, from a right EM wave starting their replicating sequences to the release of the Carrier’s own replicating nanites and sufficient energy coursing through the frame and optimizing the systems. All those details counts in the formation of the Sparkling’s protoform, as all experts will point out. However, how to encourage the protoform to develop is a highly debated point between them._

_A Carrying cycle length, unfortunately, isn’t set in cybertronium. On average, the Sparkling will develop in its Carrier’s body over the course of a full stellar cycle. However, some documented cycles have been showed to last less than eight orbital cycles or, on the contrary, almost two stellar cycles. In either case, no ill effect was noticed on the health of the birthed Sparkling, but this variation in time of gestation baffled experts for a long time, as it wasn’t, as first supposed and hand-waved, merely a frame-thing._

_The first ‘serious’ studies into the matter were made around 400 millions stellar cycles ago by the late Specialist Diopter, medic specialized in Obstetrics, and Mathematician Copula. Copula, then a young graduate with a curious mind, was trying to make sense of conflicting data regarding birth and reproduction when he found himself associating with Diopter, who was himself curious of the case of some of his patients and the development of their unborn Sparklings. The two decided to form a partnership in order to test various personal theories in a controlled setting. Diopter would follow the patients, and Copula would interpret the data for future publication…_ ”

Ratchet paused and checked the side glyphs on the holographic display, giving the references to the full study for readers wishing to access it. He made a note of checking it out later before going back to his reading.

“ _... too long to be discussed here at length. We will however note here the most famous example of the Diopter/Copula’s study. Among the patients Diopter followed and who signed up for the study were two siblings, identical in height, protoform shape and weight, with the same Spark-type, and having always lived in the same condition, having gotten Sparked Up around the same time, give or take a few cycles. Given such resemblances, it was assumed their gestations would last roughly the same length and that their Sparklings would develop at the same pace._

_A scientist mind must be careful of assumption. Unlike what had been thought, both siblings ended up with very different rate of development and delivery dates. Thus, one sibling gave birth after the standard stellar cycle-long expected time of gestation, while the second sibling’s own Carrying cycle lasted closer to one stellar cycle and 7 orbital cycles of gestation. Such discrepancy was prime material for Diopter and Copula, who based most of their ongoing guesswork on these two particular cases before applying the resulting hypothesis to a larger pool of participants…_ ”

The noise of the door’s unlocking code being entered made Ratchet pause once more, and he glance up just in time to see Ambulon enter, looking wary, arms full of neatly folded heating covers.

“What a day,” he sighed. “The laundry room was literally under assault. It sounds like the whole dormitory decided it was the perfect moment to get new covers.”

“Given the forecast said we were heading into a cold winds period and the heating system in here is total slag, can you blame them?” Ratchet said, lips curling upward briefly. Despite all the renovations done to the dorms, some things didn’t change, it seemed, and the unreliable heating system was one. “I should have gone too…” he mused, thinking. Usually, their kind didn’t feel temperature variations much, but ever since they had been ‘regenerated’, Ratchet and most of the mechs and femmes with whom he had discussed had noticed they seemed much more sensitive to such variations, among other things.

An expected side effect, as Ambulon had pointed out to him when they had discussed it the first time.

“It’s all about relays and sensors, as well as plating thickness,” the younger mech had said, sitting cross legged on his own berth. “Plating thickness help insulation and such, protection from outside stimuli. Sparklings and Younglings’ plating is much thinner, and their systems are still underdeveloped; that’s why they’re more sensitive to temperature variations. And if they are of have been sick, then it’s even more fragged up. That’s why some medics and later, ‘fashion designers’, came up with the idea of cutting cloths out of thermal-regulating fabrics, kinda like some organic species. While wearing them, a Sparkling is ‘wrapped’, protected from sudden internal temps changes and external ones as well, and it helps their systems keep stable -- which they wouldn’t be on their own. Worried parents have their young Sparklings wear them until a Sparkling-specialist give the ‘a-okay’ by deeming the Sparkling’s systems sufficiently matured out to not need them anymore; that itself can take a few deca-cycles to whole orbital cycles -- and in some cases, whole stellar cycles, though it more often than not come from the Creators being all overprotective than because the Sparkling it really that delicate and fragile.”

“As interesting as it is,” Ratchet had said back, “we’re not ‘Sparklings’.”

“No,” Ambulon had agreed. “But whatever that ‘Project Regen’ did thinned our plating and messed up our thermal sensors in some way. As such, we’ll crave heat sources and maybe much more sensitive to cold for a while -- how long, I can only guess. We won’t need to wear clothing articles because, unlike Sparlings, our systems can regulate themselves correctly enough and we can take care of ourselves, but you can bet we’ll want to snuggle in berth, wrapped into thick layers of covers and blankets.”

That had been it, and it had proven true sometimes later. And, if Ratchet wanted to be perfectly honest, it was about that time he started to wonder about his roommate…

“Don’t worry about that,” Ambulon said, breaking him out of his musings as he moved around the room and put part of the heating covers on his berth, throwing the others at Ratchet who temporarily let go of his bookfile with a low curse, scrambling to catch them. Ambulon chuckled. “I took the liberty to bring some for you as well. It turns out there’s a limitation by room, not by individual. Probably so they can be sure everyone has a least one in reach,” he said as he sat at his desk and leaned back in his seat, stretching his arms high above his head, wincing when his articulations groaned. “Gotta visit the Campus pharmacy,” he mumbled. “Definitely needs more oil for my joints... “

Ratchet nodded wisely, thinking about his own need to visit the place. He was still under supplements, after all, and his doses were running short... “You do that,” he said as he pushed the new covers to the side and, picking up his bookfile anew, continued his reading. He skipped a few paragraphs, browsing through them with detached interest, before his optics narrowed at what seemed to be a more interesting section.

“ _... thus why Diopter and Copula pointed out that the fluctuation of the gestation length could be traced back to two elements: the transfluid donations and the mineral supplements._

_As we mentioned before, and as readers can find in the full Diopter-Copula Study, upon drawing their hypotheses, members of the study pool were organized in several groups, each following different instructions set by Specialist Diopter. The goal, according to the late Doctor, was to measure out the impact of different factors on gestation length, according to myths, accepted but unverified factors, and the duo’s personal hypotheses. By comparing the length of the Carrying cycle and the general development of the Sparkling and health of the Carrier during the gestation, the duo thought they’d get a precise idea of what really impacted a Carrying cycle and thus, what was better recommended for the health of both Carriers and future Sparklings._

_Their hypotheses were thus:_

_A. Since nanites in the transfluid were self-replicant, albeit short-lived in some conditions, then the regular injection of fresh nanites, i.e. transfluids donations alone, was sufficient to allow the Sparkling protoform to develop fully. Supplements in the energon were thus unnecessary._  
B. After the nanites had started to construct the protoform, injecting new ones were unnecessary, as said nanites could be maintained on a replication pattern by taking daily mineral supplements and special energon. Interfacing was thus prohibited during the Carrying cycle.  
C. Assuming that one or both hypotheses were correct, which one held the more merit, or which one was the safest for an expectant Carrier?  
D. Assuming that one or both hypotheses were wrong, which one held the less merit, or which one was the most dangerous for an expectant Carrier?  
E. How did hypothesis A and hypothesis B fared against a Carrying cycle where the Carrier both beneficiated from regular fresh nanites donation and from mineral supplements with his daily energon intake?  
F. Assuming hypothesis A and/or hypothesis B were correct, would their application on different frame models result in different resultats? If so, then what remained the safest for the Carrier? 

_And thus Diopter and Copula started their investigations, which lasted over the course of 500,000 stellar cycles…_ "

Ouch. Ratchet put back the bookfile and started to massage his temples. If the simplified version was like that, he wondered how dry the actual study sounded like, as interesting as it sounded. At this rate, it would take forever to read and memorize… unless he had someone do a quick summary for him, he mused as he glanced at Ambulon, busy at his desk.

That… would be a great way to confirm his latent suspicion, he decided as he cleared his vocalizer. “Ambulon?” A distracted grunt answered him. “I was wondering… what did you think of the Diopter-Copula Study?”

Yellow optics glanced in his direction. “You’ll have to be more precise than that, Ratchet. That thing is massive as it is. Anything specific that bother you in the reading?” he asked, his back turned to the other medic, getting back to whatever he was doing. “I admit it can get confusing,” he said again after a moment of silence. “Their work is very complete, taking in account all the variables: frame size and specifics, Spark type, regular energon consummation, altmode, social class -- because yes, it can have an impact, especially on how Carriers take care of themselves according to their level of education and knowledge -- but also factors such as Bonded/Unbonded, steadily mated or not, age, wages, number of Sparklings already Carried to term...”

He leaned back in his seat and sighed. “Granted, some of those details may seems trivial at best, but they do help get a true vision of Carrying and what means mechs have available to them. You can’t expect a working class-mech such as, say, a simple docker, to be able to buy all the necessary supplements he should take, even less so if he’s young, new at his work and getting only minimal wages. That means he had to relieve more on regular interfacing in order to get his Sparkling’s protoform going strong and fine -- and in turn, it will lengthen the duration of the gestation, as the Sparkling will develop more slowly.”

He paused to take his breath. “Of course, relying solely on supplements in the energon isn’t so good either, as the Study also proved. But what choice do have a single mid-class worker, who don’t have a mate or a Bonded to take care of him on regular basis, and who despite having a decent salary, can’t afford to take a leave from work less he’ll get judged disposable and fired? If there was a mate in the picture, with also a decent salary, then the question wouldn’t matter, interfacing and new, fresh nanites for the protoform would be in the picture, lessening the length of the gestation. As it is, using only supplements will lengthen out the gestation period even more than simply relieving on interfacing to sustain and strengthen the Sparkling’s protoform,” Ambulon acted doctorally. “Supplements may be helping feed the self-replicating nanites, but without new ones to take their place when they start to die out, the nanites are forced to work more slowly in order to complete their job. That’s why a Carrying cycle where only supplements are in use can last up to two whole stellar cycles, whereas one relieving solely on interfacing as way to strengthen the Sparkling’s protoform may last only one and half stellar cycle.”

Ratchet nodded slowly. “So, in theory and practice, both are necessary for a safe Carrying?”

Ambulon shrugged. “It’s not always about safety; it’s about the length of gestation,” he pointed out. “You want the Sparkling out as soon as possible? You take all the interfacing and nutritional supplements you can, you don’t strain yourself and you make sure to obey the doctor’s orders if he says you need rest or to stay in berth. But, as you can guess, there are people who can’t just afford it.” He made his seat pivot so he could look at Ratchet. “What you need to consider too among your options is the eventual size of the Sparkling. Whatever you do during your pregnancy has change to affect it too. On average, Sparklings born of Carriers who only took supplements are the smallest, whereas those who relies on interfacing are actually the biggest, strangely enough. The rest can vary, but if they had both fresh nanites and supplements during gestation, then they’re healthier and develop faster. Granted, any retardation in development in Sparklings can be easily corrected out, once they’re in school and taught and fed adapted regimes by the government -- one of the good things the Decepticons developed on the side,” he confided.

Ratchet’s lips curled. “If you say so,” he grunted, mind absorbing the information. “What of… the age of the Carrier? Does it affect the Sparkling’s development and the gestation length too?”

Ambulon nodded. “It can. The younger the Carrier, the smaller the Sparkling that eventually emerge can be, even with optimal Carrying conditions. But as I said, it can be corrected when the Sparkling grow up. You wouldn’t believe just one tiny detail can influence things. That’s what Diopter and Copula tried to show -- and why their Study remain THE main doc to read, despite more precise ones having been done since. They really wanted to try and quantify all the variable they could. No wonder it took them 500,000 stellar cycles before they decided their work was good enough for publication.” He stretched his arms again, looked tired. “Sadly, that’s what make it so hard to decipher on the first reading. There are so many cross-references to follow that you easily lost track of the main texts to see the graphics and charts.”

There was a silence.

Ratchet cleared his throat. “On the first reading… probably. Which is why, even with the simplified version I’m reading in ‘On Carrying: Commons Ideas, Myths and Realities’ bookfiles -- which I’m supposed to read for Glit’s course, in case you wonder -- I have a hard time wrapping my mind around the whole thing. As it is, even if I wanted to read the actual Study in details, and I’ll have later on, I already have a long list of bookfiles recommended for classes: ‘Understanding Your Body or: How Interfacing Work’, ‘Valves and Spikes: A Guide to Reproduction’, ‘On Physical Pleasure’, ‘An Understanding of Carriers Mental Health’, ‘Psychology Handbook on Sexued Relationships’, ‘Budding, Carrying and Spark-Splitting: A Summary’, ‘Deciphering Your Body’s Reactions to Interfacing’,...”

He coughed, seeing Ambulon frozen in place. “My point is, we have quite the list of textbooks to go through, plus some due to personal curiosity. They’re all long books, at that, and given how much time we have to read them… Well, I’m only half-way through the list, despite being acknowledged as a fast reader and fast learner. Which, Ambulon, make me really wonder about you,” he said on a light tone.

The other white and red mech hesitated. “Ratchet…”

“You see, Ambulon, you always seemed to know a lot,” Ratchet said as if he hadn’t heard him. He sat on the edge of the berth, crossing his legs, optics focused on his roommate. “Granted, I don’t think the others noticed, as you hardly speak of anything class related with them, unless they breach it first. And even then, your answers are, shall we said… measured. Adapted to suit the level of learning of your interlocutor. Only, sometimes, you slip, and you give far more detailed summaries than what you should be able to. Like now; to be able to give that level of answer suggest several rereading of that ‘Diopter-Copula Study.” He paused, looking straight at Ambulon’s frozen form. “If it was merely on one or two subjects, I think it could be chalked up on you digging deep into a subject and learning everything you could on it. But, as it is… you know all,” he said flatly.

“I hardly…” the other medic tried to say, only to be cut out again.

“Well, perhaps not all, I admit. There are moments where you seem a bit out of your depth, and moments where you seem to genuinely be ignorant. For example, I saw you paying close attention during that one class we had on medical tools adapted to Sparklings -- which would imply you either didn’t know about them at all… or you used to know how to use such tools, but not the particular models they showed us. Models, I must add, Pharma told us were the newest ones developed by Decepticon Medical Engineers. That one class aside? You don’t pay close attention, or you don’t take notes. I see you going through bookfiles, but you don’t really give the impression to read them. More to… browsing through them as if you were just seeking a certain part to reread it and confirm something. I certainly never saw you read the first bookfile they asked us to go through, the one on ‘ _Correct Anatomy_ ’.”

He tilted his head, still looking steadily at his roommate. “So, no notes, no careful listening like we all do, and you always score very high on any test we have. That implies you know the material -- and you know it so well that going through class is just redundant for you. So I have to ask, Ambulon: what are you doing here? Or better yet: WHO are you, Ambulon? Is that even your name to begin with?”

Ambulon didn’t say anything, just weakly shaking his head. Ratchet’s gaze softened a bit.

“I won’t judge you, you know. It’s not like I care if you used to be a… a serial-killer or a Decepticon or something. But I want the truth, Ambulon. We have shared this room for nearly nine orbital cycles already, and I thought we were friends… well, on friendly terms,” he corrected himself quickly. “I just want to know why you are here, when it’s obvious you don’t need to. Are you… are you a plant?” he asked uncertainly. “Are you here to make sure none of us plan a revolt?”

Ambulon looked shocked. “Wh…?! Of course not!” he said, startled, and Ratchet felt his shoulders relax almost instantly. That was a reaction he could believe; it sounded too honest to be anything but the truth.

“I believe you,” he said simply, and Ambulon’s shoulders relaxed in turn, sagging in relief. “But I expect some answers,” he warned.

Ambulon stayed silent for a moment, optics downcast, face blank, before he sighed. “I guess I should just as well give you some, eh?” he said mirthlessly. “Just… give me a moment, okay?” he asked as he rose to unsteady pedes and walked toward his berth, on which he immediately sat down, pushing himself to lean against the wall and bringing up his knees, surrounding them with his arms in a rather defensive position.

“Okay… okay, I can do it,” he muttered, looking across the room at Ratchet. “First of… my name IS Ambulon. All records you’ll find will tell you as much. I’m Ambulon. That’s the only name I’ll answer to and if, by pure dumb luck, I happened to have another one a long, long time ago, then it wouldn’t matter because as far as record and myself go, I’m just Ambulon. Got it?”

“Clearly,” Ratchet said dryly, lips curling into a small, quick smile. “And where do you hail from, Ambulon?”

“That… is a long story, I fear,” Ambulon sighed. “As far as official records go, I was protoformed at the Delphi Colony, near the Salvvatan System some time before the start of the Great War. Records will say I was supposed to oversee and heal a couple of manual workers and miners in case of trouble. Records will also say that I was never involved in the front lines and helped manne Delphi, which had been reconverted in a Medical Outpost, with the grade of Ward Manager.”

“And unofficially?” Ratchet asked, trying not to sound too curious or eager for the answer. He knew, deep down, that Ambulon needed to go at his own pace, less he would clam up.

“Unofficially? I was protoformed on Vehicon, a long, long time ago -- yes, that Vehicon; the ‘Drones Planet’ where the population joined the Decepticons ‘en masse’, only still part of the Commonwealth due to some fast-talking and intelligent leaders who submitted to the Magnus’ rule, but never stopped their people from leaving for another corner of space if they didn’t agree with the rules.” He sighed. “As you can guess, there’s a large portion of my life that isn’t mentioned in the files. I’ll give you a hint: I used to be far more… purple,” he said showing off his arm where his paint was, once again, flaking.

“I would never had guessed,” Ratchet quipped, but there was no malice here. It wasn’t as if Ambulon was revealing some big secret here -- at least, not where his paintjob was concerned. The other mech’s paint tended to flake regularly, revealing a purple layer under the white and red he currently was. Some thought it was due to poor maintenance, just like poor maintenance had caused Ratchet’s systems to age prematurely over the last million of stellar cycles, before the ‘Cons made him go through ‘Project Regen’. But, as Ratchet and several other medics knew, it wasn’t the case with Ambulon. The mech took care of himself.

His problem, actually, came from glitchy color nanites. Most mechs were infused with color nanites over their activation, which in turn allowed their armor to color without having to resort to paint. The problem was, these nanites weren’t always the brightest around -- and they were stubborn little buggers too. A mech could decide to repaint himself, using normal or electronic paint, and these nanites could and would act up to try and get rid of what they analyzed as a ‘foreign contaminant’. Thus why it was hard, and sometimes downright impossible for some mechs to change their paintjob as they wished. Short of getting rid of all the nanites or reprogram them, which was nearly impossible, you had to deal with your first base colors or invest in massive amount of paint to maintain the looks you wished.

Obviously, Ambulon had chosen the second option.

Ambulon’s optics flashed briefly, a pale smile on his lips, and Ratchet coughed self-consciously. “So… you were protoformed a Decepticon?” he asked. “Which make little sense,” he added after a klik. “I mean, I had gathered that all Decepticons were kindled mecha…”

“Yes and no,” Ambulon said, sighing, burying his chin deeper into his knees. “Kindling was primarily done by war-frames, but it wasn’t exclusive to them. There were some categories of ‘bots who kindled too -- and who dropped the practice or hide it well since then. Anyway, the war-frame tradition from kindling offsprings resulted from the small number of protoformed war-frame the successive ruling Council accepted to bring forth at each batch activation. They argued, among other things, that to bring a single war-frame’s size depleted the reserves of protomatter faster than using the same mass to protoform three civilians workers.” He snorted. “Stupid. The size difference between war-frames and civilian-type only became so pronounced during the Age of Expansion, when explorers seeking to bring new territories under Cybertron’s control ran afool of predatory species; war-frame accompanying them were upgraded to be able to take them on, and so the size-difference became much more important. Over time, it spread to all the war class.”

Ratchet nodded slowly. “I see. So since they couldn’t have fully upgraded and aware new members protoformed to join their ranks, they decided to produce them from scratch by kindling?”

“Basically, yes,” Ambulon agreed. “That how the practice began in earnest, where before it had just been marginal. They hadn’t much choice, though; they needed more members, the government refused to give them adult ones, and still their skills were in continuous demands. Even if some hadn’t been convinced at first, I suppose they enjoyed Creating,” he chuckled wryly. “And I can understand them; it’s very nice… But I digress, aren’t I? Anyway,” he continued, “you can’t exactly say that one is ‘protoformed’ or ‘kindled’ as a Decepticon, or as an Autobot. In the end, despite one’s origins, it’s his choice to join one side or another. Back when the Decepticon Registration Act first passed, among other laws and rules that were basically outlawing kindling altogether, such condemning a whole part of our civilization, history and culture to death, I was elbows deep in caring for Vehicons miners and Decepticons overseers, with Carriers among them -- and not a few Sparklings, newborns or otherwise.”

He shuttered his optics. “It didn’t seem fair at all. The mechs and femmes with whom I lived were good ‘bots, all of them, who just enjoyed having a simple life and families. They had been struggling for a while already, due to the economic and energon crisis that hit part of the Commonwealth right before the War started -- not that people like to talk about it, mind you, better focus on how big and bad the Decepticons were -- and suddenly, they were going to lose their whole way of life. Their kids were supposed to get upgraded immediately, because Sparklings were becoming illegal -- well, that’s how some of them understood it, and some of the louder Autobots supporters on the planet as well. There were clashes, people injured, a few deaths even… And in the midst of that, as the Great War was officially started, I decided to get a purple badge of allegiance and do my best to help. And I would certainly have continued to, if things had evolved differently.”

There was bitterness here, so deep Ratchet was put out at first. He gave his roommate a considering look. “If you didn’t agree with the Autobots’ ideals… why did you join the faction in the first place?”

Ambulon looked at him for a moment, before sighing. “Let’s start with something simple. Unlike some mechs, I never truly hated the Autobots for anything. I didn’t agree with Ultra Magnus’ decision, and the way the Council and the Senators snapped around, trying to enforce the edicts, but I didn’t hate the Autobots. Just the same way I didn’t agree with all the Decepticons’ plans. The whole turning Cybertron into an armored robot able to defend itself? On paper, it sounds good enough, but in practice, it would have been the Pit -- even if it was just for defense and not for conquest, as some wanted. Anyway, I knew not all the Decepticons were Primus Heralds, and same thing for the Autobots. Common sense, right?”

He waited just enough for Ratchet to nod before continuing. “I first thought it didn’t matter so much, which side I was on. Surely, both sides’ leaders would stop the fighting before it became too bad, right?” He chuckled humorlessly. “Primus, was I naive! I had sort of imagined the War would be over in a few orbital cycles, perhaps a few stellar ones at most, that mechs would stop fighting when they realized just how wrong everything had become.” He sighed. “But the fight only intensified over time, mechs who had never acted as such started to become more and more violent and fanatical, forgetting why they had started fighting in the first place. Less prisoners were taken alive, more mechs executed on the spot -- despite some of them being just newly activated mechas. Ironic and painful, considering the safety of newly protoformed mechs and their right to have a Sparklinghood and a life was one of the very reasons some of the ‘Cons started fighting for.”

“... Is that why you left? Because they were slowly turning into madmechs?” Ratchet asked softly.

“Part of it,” Ambulon agreed. “It wasn’t everyone, but it was becoming more and more noticeable. There were officers who tried to rule them in -- but it was hard to, and reporting the troublemakers or the very crazy ones didn’t always work. If Megatron and his main Generals got the records, they either didn’t care or didn’t have time to come and investigate themselves. Not with how crazy and widespread the conflict was turning.” Ambulon tightened his hold around his knees. “It let ‘bots with less than standard ethic get into positions of power… and some decided that war was just the right thing for them to try and further some personal projects that would never had been allowed to be studied during peacetime. That’s how, one cycle, I got myself transferred under the command of a ‘scientist’.” He sneered the word, and Ratchet gathered that whoever it was, the mech certainly only held the title by self-proclamation.

“What happened?” he asked softly.

“What didn’t happen?” Ambulon retorted, grimacing. “I swear to Primus and the Allspark, Ratchet, that… mech should have been shot down a long time ago! Part of me still hope that the mechs in charge now will wisen up and arrest him before judging him guilty of war crimes and send him to the smelting pools!” His frame shook, from fury or fear, Ratchet couldn’t say. He stayed quiet while Ambulon took deep intakes to calm himself, continuing his tale with shuttered optics. “He was a chemist. A damn good one, I’m forced to recognize, because he knew his stuff. But what he did… He created diseases, Ratchet, deadly diseases he tried out on recovering patients in the Ward when there weren’t any prisoners for him to test them on. Deadly disease, some with 90%, 100% of fatality… and he didn’t even try to create an antidote.” The shaking started again, but Ratchet couldn’t blame him, his face too caught in an horrified expression as he imagined clearly what it must have been like.

And, deep in his Spark, he too felt dread, for the description reminded him of someone… Someone he had dearly hoped had died since.

“It was bad, Ratchet. Really bad. There were several of us medics who started to protest, because it went so much against our coding to try and save lives. I think that’s why, in the end, there was an… unfortunate accident. Or two. Or three,” he said bleakly, and Ratchet’s optics widened. “It started small. A nurse who made a bad fall in the stairs and broke his back strut, leaving him in agony. A surgeon who accidentally crushed a phial that shouldn’t have broken, full of an acidic, corrosive substance that destroyed his hands and damaged a good portion of his arms relays and sensors -- poor mech had to drop medicine altogether; we did our best, but with that kind of damage, he could never get back to one hundred percents and practice delicate operations anymore. Then there was the three mechs who got themselves ‘accidentally’ locked up in the lab with one of the… the infected ‘subject’ who had broken out of his cell and got infected in turn…”

Ambulon’s optics had become pale, almost white, with just the barest hint of yellow. Ratchet focused on staying rooted in place, even if a growing part of his CPU longed to cross the room and sit next to Ambulon, then hug the other mech in comfort.

“I was lucky, I guess. When I got caught in an accident… I managed to get out, barely,” he whispered. “I remembered that cracked phial rolling to my pedes, spraying me with a contaminant that was already starting to make rust spots appear on the floor, and where the liquid had touched me. I could see them grow already, and I knew I was going to be a goner if it reached into my main systems and infected my body. I was equipped with a saw at the time -- can’t even remember why. I think it was because I had just finished amputating some damaged limbs… Anyway,” he gulped, “I didn’t have a choice. It took only a few kliks, even if it felt like an eternity. It was them… or my life, and I intended to live. Didn’t have the time to turn off my pain receptors, I just had to act… And what was some pain compared to continued functioning?”

Ratchet watched him in horror, shaking his head. “You… cut off your own legs?” he asked in disbelief, his voice shaking and his mind racing. That was… that was just…

Ambulon laughed brokenly. “It wasn’t as if I could try anything else. That rust could spread so far, so fast… It wasn’t a stable formula yet, but I had seen it do ravage on guinea-pig’o-trons and on… other test subjects,” he said in a whisper. “I remember scrambling back as well as I could, my severed legs becoming more and more rusty and crumbling into dust already, and the exclamations of worried nurses who had heard me screaming. I remember my energon on the floor, mixed with the dust… And after that, nothing. I lost consciousness due to shock and energon loss, and when I woke up, I decided it was high time I try my luck somewhere else… and under a different leadership. If the ‘Cons couldn’t or wouldn’t run in a mech so dangerous he had little to no regard for his fellow Decepticons, then I didn’t want to be anywhere the ‘Cons anymore.”

He sighed again. “I had nightmare about that… ‘incident’ for stellar cycles, and I never could consider chemistry the same way ever again. I just had to enter recharge to think back about the rust, clinging and climbing all over my frame, and that of others around me. It was that awful, Ratchet. It would kill you, wasting away your systems to nothing in barely a few cycles. Though I heard he later perfected the formula to act more slowly… probably to let people see they were going to die, and make it more painful,” he winced. Ratchet stared. “I heard he later tried it on a battlefield, on allies and enemies alike, somewhere on…”

“The Hydrax Plateau,” Ratchet whispered. “Primus… you worked under Oil Slick?”

Ambulon lighted his optics in shock. “You know…?”

Ratchet nodded solemnly. “Oh yes, I do,” he grunted, thinking back to the one and last time he tried to honor his vows as a medic and heal a Decepticon… who had promptly turned on him and infected him with the deadly disease. “I had a run-in with Cosmic Rust and its effects. They deployed me on the Hydrax Plateau to search for survivors after we lost contact with the unit there. What I found was a lot of dead, Autobots and Decepticons alike… and a sole survivor, who later confessed to be the creator of the Rust before he infected me and let me to die,” he confessed, bracing himself.

Ambulon almost choked. “You healed…?! You got infected? And you survived?!”

“I was an idiot, I know,” the red and white ‘bot said as he massaged his temples. “For my defense, I was just following my beliefs that all lives were worth saving, and I didn’t know who he was. For me, he was just a survivor in dire need of help. Though I should have be alarmed already when he said he knew an antidote and just needed someone to synthesize it for him,” he grumbled.

Ambulon blinked. “Wait; you’re the one who created the cure to Cosmic Rust?”

“Yeah. Kind of. Can’t say I truly ‘created’ it, since I obeyed Oil Slick’s instructions, but yes, I was the one who synthesized it, and managed to mass produce it with what few of the antidote I managed to steal from him, and High Command had it distributed around,” the medic nodded. “Small good it did,” he grunted after a few kliks of silence.

“You shouldn’t say that. What you did probably saved thousands, perhaps millions of lives,” Ambulon pointed out. “I know I recharged far more easily once I heard there was an actual cure to that disease.”

“Glad to learn that, I guess,” Ratchet said, not quite shrugging. He had never liked to hear the whole ‘Cosmic Rust’ thing be brought up. Sure, he had managed to give the Autobots an antidote, and the next few times the Rust was used on a battlefield, fatalities had dropped to less than 10%. But if he hadn’t healed Oil Slick, then the secret of the Rust would have been lost with him to begin with, and the crazy Decepticon wouldn’t have created some of the other infectious diseases the ‘Cons had come up with over the stellar cycles of the Great War.

It weighed on his conscience just as much as Arcee’s still, mind wiped form in the Infirmary…

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “What I remember thinking is, how could the ‘Cons tolerate him for wiping out some of their own mechs in the process,” he said after a while. “I know some of the things the Autobots did weren’t… well, they weren’t the nicest nor cleanest, but if someone had pulled out a stunt like that on our side, I think Ultra Magnus would have his lasercore on a plate,” he commented. “So how come Megatron did?”

“Old military class saying,” Ambulon said dryly. “‘You don’t throw away a tool which still has its uses.’ Even if said tool is dangerous to yourself and your own. So long Oil Slick served a purpose, he was basically untouchable. However, I doubt he was placed on General Strika’s team as a reward,” he commented.

“Oh?”

“Yeah…” Ambulon seemed to uncurl himself from his protective position a bit. “You didn’t hear it from me, and besides I’m not sure how reliable the source who told me so was, but basically? You ended up on Team Chaar for two reasons: either you were a loyal, incredibly competent follower of Megatron… or you were someone in need of watching, with General Strika calling the shots if she had any proof you were disloyal. You wouldn’t believe half the tales they brought up about the ‘General of Destruction’.”

“And I prefer not hearing of them altogether. I have enough bad memories purges as it, without having to sort out the truth between the misdeeds of a ‘Con I hope I’ll never met,” the red and white medic grunted.

“As you wish. Though some of them are truly funny… But I guess you wouldn’t appreciate the humor,” the other mech stated.

“Probably not at the time,” Ratchet nodded. “So, you told me why you left the Decepticons. It doesn’t tell me how you ended up with the Autobots. I gather Ultra Magnus knew about you?”

“Ultra Magnus himself, I’m not sure. He probably reviewed my case, but I never met him personally. Some members of the Council, various Senators, Intelligence and a few members of the Medical Corps? They definitely knew who I was. Intelligence especially, under Highbrow Prime. I’m not sure his successor ever knew… Oh, well, why do I care?” he sighed. “I can’t say I regret he disappeared. The few times I met him, the mech was all business, and not exactly polite or understanding but then again, Intelligence had all rights to be wary of so-called ‘Decepticon Deserters’. There had been true and fake ones alike since the beginning of the war, just like they had been Autobots defectors and plants in the ranks of the ‘Cons, and it was a real nightmare for them to sort through. When I docked on Cybertron and surrendered myself, asking for asylum and the right to join the Autobots, I was immediately arrested and send to the Stockades, were I resided for almost three stellar cycles before they decided I was sincere enough. A small price to pay in order to be able to put the past behind me and go back to actually heal mechas.”

“And they accepted you just like that?” Ratchet asked. Having met Highbrow Prime himself, he rather doubted it. And he also felt that Ambulon might not have told him all the truth about his imprisonment, but he didn’t press him. He had already gathered he wouldn’t like what he would heard, and that it was a painful subject.

Ambulon chuckled mirthlessly. “Honestly? No, no they didn’t. They had accepted I might be sincere in my desire to leave the ‘Cons behind, but to actually allow me to operate on patients? When there were still a chance, even the barest one, that I might be a spy/traitor/plant and that I would kill them ‘accidentally’ during surgery? No, Ratchet. I didn’t get a licence to operate. Instead, I was asked to deal with, correct and censor medical files and bookfiles, in order to make them… ‘politically correct’, shall we say.”

Ratchet stilled utterly, staring at Ambulon in disbelief. “‘Politically…?’ By the Allspark! Ambulon, do you mean YOU’re the one who suppressed all mentions of kindling from the records?!”

The mech with yellow optics winced. “You make it sounds like I’m the sole responsible; I wasn’t alone, you know. There were other medics and a few archivists involved, Alpha Trion among them. None of us were happy to do so, but it was our job, our orders. And that work had started long before I joined the team in charge of the project. In fact, it had started long before the war, gradually. I realized it when I was peering through different versions of the same texts and noticed the edits. Sometimes there was a sentence missing, sometimes whole paragraphs, and sometimes, words were edited out or drowned into obscure lore. Bookfiles that couldn’t be amended were immediately retired from public circulation, banned and deleted entirely, except for a single, unaltered copy Alpha Trion insisted to keep. I kinda liked him, you know. He liked to argue that, ‘forbidden’ and ‘obsolete’ knowledge or not, getting rid of it would be a crime, and that it was important to keep a trace in case one day we needed the references.” He smiled thinly. “How right he was.”

“So it actually started before the war,” Ratchet murmured, thoughtful. “It does explain why I never heard of ‘Carriers’ and ‘Sires’ before, or from ‘Sparklings’ asides of the budding produces of the Paradron’s mecha. It would also explain why I didn’t heard of spikes and valves before, and their purpose. If our very courses and files were altered to make them disappear from common knowledge altogether…” He shook his head bleakly. “But that doesn’t explain why I never came across a Sparkling from close up, or across a ‘Carrier’ in the middle of its gestation cycle. Or even why I never accidentally stumbled upon my… interface array,” he finished, wincing.

“Simple enough, if you think about it for a while,” Ambulon noted. “You were from Iacon, right? And you only ever traveled as far as Protihex to come to the Academy?” Ratchet nodded slowly. “Then you already have part of your answer. Kindling was mainly done by military classes; how many war-frames lived in Iacon before the Great War? Aside of those officially stationed there?”

“... Not many,” Ratchet acknowledged, mind racing. “And they tended to consult their own medics. I seldom dealt with any Decepticon before the fighting started.”

“My point exactly,” Ambulon nodded. “There wasn’t any to see because family units were concentrated in the heavily war-frames populated cities and areas such as Kaon, Tarn, Vos or Helex. As traveling between the two hemispheres wasn’t so common, then a lot of ‘bots weren’t exposed to the sight of Sparklings running down the street, or Carriers in the middle of their gestation. And those who did probably, they thought the Sparklings were a sort of Cassettes and Carriers sick mechs suffering from an ailment that inflated their protoform. That’s how you hide away the fact both exist; by making sure a good part of the population has no idea they exist to begin with.”

“And the interface array part? Any good theory about why we missed it?” the medic asked, interested. Ambulon’s hypothesis made a lot of sense, as loath as he was to accept it. It just sounded about right for what might have happened.

“More than a theory,” Ambulon stated, leaning back against the wall, optics shuttered. “In the newer generation mechs and femmes were protoformed without an interface array. In theory, that shouldn’t be possible, because the protomatter is sentient -- or at least, close enough to sentient to take a shape which will be complete. And complete, for the protomatter, includes all the parts a Cybertronian need, including a way to reproduce: gestation chamber, spike, valve. Anyway, a protoformed mech should have all the ‘bits’, no matter what its creators wished. Only, they found a way. I’m not sure how, nor who did so, but after a while, they managed to influence the protomatter enough so it would… fill or leave a void where the interface array should be. Mind you, it only worked on the very latest generations to come out in batch,” he added quickly at Ratchet’s look of disbelief. “And ‘Project Regen’ apparently took care of correcting that, by reshifting the protomatter just right so it would create the interface array, so the young ones will one day be able to naturally procreate.”

“Admitting,” Ratchet said after a moment, “that you are right. That the younger ‘bots, like some members of my team, didn’t have these parts when onlined. How do you expect the older generations? Us, for example?”

“You, you mean,” Ambulon corrected him. “I always knew what I had between my legs but then again, I had people who pointed it out for me and explained me the ‘things of life’,” he chuckled, before sobering up. “In older generations, it was all down to coding and, in some case, to surgery,” he explained. “The foundry owners, the engineers and the designers who created the protoforms couldn’t avoid the creation of the interface components, but they could block them out with coding that persuaded a mech’s processor there was nothing to activate down there. And there were foundry where interface components were systematically surgically removed before the protoforms were even brought online for the first time, before the Spark was infused.”

“That’s… sick,” Ratchet said, lacking words to describe the whole thing. As much as discovering the interface array had been a shock, he would rather have had discovered it on his own and be told about it beforehand rather than learning the details from his new overlords. Had the Autobots leaders before Ultra Magnus, and Ultra Magnus himself, not realized the potential for trauma and abuse the whole setting gave?

Then again… considering they had been told by the ‘Cons themselves that the array could be misused, in a very emphatic way… perhaps they did. And perhaps they had thought they were protecting them. Perhaps.

The most cynical part of his mind, however, just thought it was because having their population grow through protoforming new adult frames allowed them to have an easy control on said population. They had the final say in how many could be brought online, when, with what characteristic, what processor speed, what talents,... There was no room for surprise, for an individual who didn’t fit exactly in the mold they had pre established. Some might had found such a society perfect, the pinnacle of peaceful. Ratchet, personally, found it stiffening and utterly wrong, though he couldn’t exactly pinpoint why.

“It’s… disturbing to consider,” he finally said. Ambulon nodded grimly.

“Very much so. Which was why I had a hard time fitting in at first,” he confessed. “What they were doing, behind everyone’s back… it was wrong. But it was a lesser wrong than what the Decepticons were doing at the time. That was what I kept telling myself anyway, but perhaps I was just very biased because, oh, I almost died thank to Oil Slick,” he shrugged.

“It wasn’t harmful in the same way, it didn’t threaten lives… so I guess that, even if it was a bitter pill to swallow, knowing there would be no Sparklings on Cybertron anymore from this point forward unless Megatron won the war, I just let myself go with the flow,” he continued. “I went through mountains of files. I read. I censored. I learned, even if I didn’t think I would never use that knowledge again. I stayed quiet and obedient, doing what people wanted from me, never making waves or raising an objection. And in the end, I got a new name, a new paintjob, a new background, and the right to go bury myself in anonymity on Cybertron. And so I stayed… until finally, the Decepticons managed to reconquer Cybertron. The end of the story, you know it already; I was put under arrest and underwent ‘Project Regen’, since I was protoformed mech. Decepticons either didn’t make the link with my old identity, or they didn’t care. Well… they might know who I am, since they had access to my Spark’s frequency,” he confessed. “But nobody called me on it so far. I guess they decided I wasn’t worth the trouble to be tried as a deserter and that I was better off as an ‘ignorant’ Autobot medic. It’s not like they can afford to get rid of anyone with medical training, not when there are so many new Sparklings to take care of and check upon,” he babbled, but Ratchet wasn’t listening anymore, mind replaying part of the lengthy conversation.

“And so natural reproduction and its knowledge died down,” Ratchet murmured. He stayed silent for a moment. “Thank you,” he finally said.

Ambulon blinked. “What for?”

“For sharing your tale. It wasn’t something easy to do, I’m sure.”

“No. No, it wasn’t,” the yellow-opticed medic whispered. “But in a way, I’m glad I managed to get it out. It’s hard to bear, sometimes.”

“I can imagine.” Ratchet stretched his limbs, thoughtful. “Say, Ambulon… you said they couldn’t afford to ‘get rid of anyone with medical training’; what did you mean by that?”

Ambulon’s optic ridges raised. “You haven’t noticed? Then again, I suppose it isn’t so obvious unless you know what to look for,” he mumbled.

“The suspense is killing me,” Ratchet deadpanned, drawing a short, amused laugh from Ambulon. “Please, ease my Spark and tell me the awful truth.”

“Oh, the ‘truth’ as you put it is not ‘awful’. It’s just… Ratchet, how old are you? I mean, when did you get first protoformed?”

“... I don’t intend to answer that question,” Ratchet groused unhappily. It was a subject he liked to avoid thinking about, less he felt, well, old. Despite the fact the Decepticons still thought he was a Youngling of sort. Which… made no sense to him.

“I’m going to guess: long enough ago,” Ambulon said dryly. “I can honestly say we’re about the same age, though with very different background that may or may not have impacted our maturity development. That said, it’s ‘logical’ we would appear to be the same age once we have been ‘regenerated’. Same thing for Red Alert, or Flashpoint. However, think about it: how old are First Aid, or Minerva? Or Rung and Rest-Q?”

Ratchet frowned. “Rest-Q is older than me, that much I know. He was already a medic for the Elite Guard when I was protoformed. Rung… well, I remember reading one of his papers when I was in class, so older too. As for First Aid and Minerva, they’re younger than us by several thousand of stellar cycles, but…” His optics widened. “They shouldn’t be the age they currently are,” he stated quietly. “Is that it?”

Ambulon nodded. “Yes, it is. If we followed the logic of what the ‘Cons told us, Project Regen is supposed to bring our frame to a size and physical development adapted to our Spark’s age. But if we follow that logic, then Minerva and First Aid should be toddling around with some of the Sparklings we saw. Which imply that it isn’t the full truth… and that the ‘Con can actually ‘choose’ how far they make our body regress. Whatever physical state we end with has been carefully planned and put in place.”

“That’s… what the point of doing that?!” the red and white mech blurted out, mind racing. It made… it made an awful lot of sense, now that he thought about it. That mechs like, oh, Bumblebee or perhaps Bulkhead, who were much younger than he was, ended as helpless Sparklings, he could understand and accept -- somehow. But if so, shouldn’t First Aid be their age too, or close to? However, the junior medic now looked… barely a few stellar cycles younger than Ratchet currently was. Which made no sense… unless someone had tweaked things. “Why would they…?”

“My better guess? Easier control over the subdued Autobots,” Ambulon sighed. “Think about it: the younger, most helpless they are, the easiest it is to make sure there will not be any uprising. They have a close optics on them and can make sure no one escape their control, and no one try to reverse the process… assuming it can be done.”

“But then why leave us with adult -- or near adult bodies? Us and others? That… Oh,” he muttered. “So many Sparklings and Younglings at once… a population boom, but without the necessary medical staff to care for them… Yes, it would make sense they decide to keep the medic at an, shall we say, ‘acceptable age’ for us to still be useful. Same thing with some of the engineers, or perhaps also some of the Autotroopers. They need us to have ‘adult’ hands around to help care for those they ‘shrunk’.”

“Exactly,” Ambulon said. “We’re more useful to them as we are, filling our roles. That doesn’t mean they don’t really see us as kids, though, because most of them do. But, since we have the skills… it’d be stupid to not use them, wouldn’t it? Add to that, the older our date of protoforming is, the harder it must be to bringing us down to Sparkling-size. It must be, at the very least, time and energy-consuming. So if they can find a middle ground for some, an age where they can be ‘managed’ and without the risks they do something overly stupid… Why not take it? Granted, I can’t be sure; perhaps it is genial, after all, the age most of us end up at. But in some cases, I’m sure they did something to stop the ‘regeneration’ from going further, just to keep varied age groups.”

“I guess so,” Ratchet nodded. “But aren’t they taking a risk as it is? I mean, what would stop us, we who can still act as ‘adult’, to try and reverse engineering their famous Project Regen? I mean, one of us could slip out of their scrutiny, grab a few of our fellow ‘regenerated’ Autobots, and run away as if Unicron was after our aft. From there, what would stop us from finding a quiet place, fund a lab, and try to work on a cure? Aside of the fact that, the more I’m learning about a Sparkling’s systems and how delicate they are, the more I realize I would probably kill my patient if I attempted to?” he mused aloud, finding the answer to his own question already.

“The whole point of teaching us medics, I’d say,” Ambulon pointed out. “If we realize by ourselves we can’t reverse the Project without doing serious and potentially deadly harm to whoever we try to apply our ‘cure’ to, then we’ll be able to get the word out to the still-hopeful masses, who wouldn’t know better. If all doctors, all scientists admit it can’t be done, then they will too be forced to admit it, and such resign themselves to their lives. Ingenious, I’d say,” he commented matter of factly.

“Yeah, but damn crushing for anyone who get his hopes too high.”

“Decepticons don’t always play nice, especially when they want to emphasize a point,” Ambulon shrugged. “As it is, I think we should consider ourselves happy.”

“Oh? And why that, pray tell?”

“Well… we’re relatively free, all things considered,” the other mech said, stretching. “We can’t leave the Campus, but we can circulate on it without much problem -- which is more than some ‘bots can say, what’s with almost all members of the Council under arrest and imprisoned in Primus only know which Pithole. We have access to entertainment, to high grade energon in reasonable quantity, and to the Library. And most than all, we don’t have to deal with the indignity of being ‘adult’ minds in Sparklings’ bodies. Do you imagine yourself as a Sparkling? Being carried around and forced to wear nappies in case you have leaks?” he said in good humor.

The idea was so ridiculous Ratchet couldn’t help but snort. “Primus forbids!” He shook his head in bitter-tainted amusement. Oh yes, he could see how much of an impression it would make on some of their fellow Autobots. He quickly sobered up, though. Between that and death? Ratchet prefered the ‘helpless Sparklings’ thing over too many cold, empty shell send to the smelting furnaces.

He flopped on his berth, shuttering his optics. “What a mess,” he mumbled.

“Quite,” Ambulon agreed with a sad smile. “What else can we do, but ride it through and do our best to not let everything bring us down? I don’t know for you, or for any of the other, but truthfully? I don’t mind our current situation. Not too much,” he amended when Ratchet turned his head to stare at him. He raised his arms in defense. “I’m just saying I appreciate the chance to read and learn over Sparklings and reproduction once more. I treated and followed expectant Carriers, remember? And I liked that, Ratchet. It was so much more peaceful and enjoyable than practicing amputations and emergency repairs on injured soldiers you knew were going to go right back into the fray and come back injured once more, or not at all!”

Ratchet sighed. “I suppose so. I was just a random medic before the war, or at least for the little time I spend in society before it broke out. I gave anti-virus patches, repaired injured limbs during industrial accidents, and occasionally did filters change or flushed of the systems of syk addicts. I… miss it,” he confessed.

“You’ll get the chance to do so again soon enough. We will all do,” Ambulon assured him. “In the meanwhile, we read, we listen, we learn. Sooner or later, we’ll be allowed back into the general society, and then we will have to deal with all sort of new cases. I can’t wait to deal with my first emergence,” he said with a grin.

“Nice to know,” Ratchet drawled, turning to lie on his side to look at Ambulon. “Personally, I prefer not to think of how awkward it’ll be the first time I need to give a ‘valve exam’ to someone who managed to rip the lining of his valve.”

“You shouldn’t see much of that. It’s very hard to do,” Ambulon pointed out, before grimacing. “Well, it’s pretty hard to do if the interface is consensual. When it’s forced… there can be damage, if the one doing the spiking is very violent.”

“You saw cases like that?” Ratchet asked quietly.

“Thankfully, no. And if I’m lucky, I never will,” the yellow-opticed mech said, rubbing his temples. “Mind you, there can be damages anyway, if one is not careful with his or her lover,” he added after a moment of silence. “You read…?”

“Yeah, I read the textbook,” Ratchet acknowledged. “I’ve heard it made some of our fellow students drop out the idea of interfacing at all. Ever.” He snorted. “Of course, they were already swearing they wouldn’t when we had our first class with Glit, and look at them now. I know for certain Red Alert and Flashpoint are doing it together, despite how vocal they were against the very idea.”

“So it wasn’t just my imagination then?” Ambulon chuckled. “I had been wondering about them, but it would have been hardly polite to ask directly. It’s good, I guess.” At Ratchet’s raised optic ridge, he continued. “We need more than textual knowledge in order to be good medics, Ratchet. You know it, I know it, we all know it. Reading about something is all fine and good, but it’s not going to help you much if you’re not confronted with practice, where you’ll have to put whatever theory you learned to test -- and improvise, if you find out you can’t exactly follow the book’s procedures. I apply to surgery, and it applies to interfacing as well.” He stretched his limbs once more. “Why do you think the teachers insisted so much we ‘discover our own bodies in our private time’? Or why they gave us interface toys?” he added, thinking about the individual black boxes that were stocked under each berth in each room. “I’m not sure they’ll actually check if we did interface or not, but they expect us to at least be familiar enough with our own systems to understand what might be wrong in other’s.”

Ratchet grunted wordlessly, mind turning back to the discovery of his own box’s content, a few orbital cycles ago. Datafiles full of… of so-called erotic stories and pictures -- and he would lie if he didn’t say his systems had actually tingled weirdly the first time he actually went through them -- a small manual detailing differents… interfacing positions, a bottle of artificial lubricant to apply ‘down there’ if he had trouble producing his own… and a ‘false spike’ to stimulate his valve should he desire so.

Primus, that had been so embarrassing to hold it in one hand, not realizing fully what it was until his optics fell over the pictures… and then he had dropped it with a yelp. Ambulon, thankfully, hadn’t laughed at his reaction, for which he had been grateful. Now, knowing his fellow medic had known exactly what it was and what use it filled, he could only be even more grateful for his silence and ‘nothing just happened’ look.

He hadn’t said anything either the few night cycles Ratchet had succombed to his curiosity and actually… explored himself. Just like Ratchet had never said anything over the noises Ambulon made at night on the other side of the privacy screen they drew during recharge time.

Learning about valves, spikes and interfacing was dandy and all, but actually admitting you were interested in exploring the physical aspect aloud and to your roommate? That was more problematic. Ratchet could only think of a handful of their fellow Autobots who did openly. The rest were either very silent, or very loud in denial.

If he was honest with himself, then Ratchet could say he wanted more than a few caresses over his spike and teasing of his external node -- or even the feeling of that toy inside him. But it wasn’t like there were many mechs or femmes he could approach to speak of the matter and actually ‘practice’ with. And there also was the matter of any interfacing ending up with a Sparkling on the way. Granted, the ‘Cons had told them contraceptive methods -- a subject they had covered extensively -- were freely given at the Campus’ Pharmacy, but walking over and asking for them was just damn embarrassing, as well as a painful admission that indeed, you were curious enough to go further than light touches... 

“You know,” Ambulon said suddenly, startling him out of his thoughts, “it’s been an eternity since I last had a good frag.”

Ratchet blushed, startled. “Ambulon!”

The other mech shrugged. “Well, it’s true. Unlike you, I knew what it was long beforehand. And I had practice,” he pointed out before sighing. “I wasn’t hopping into every berth I saw, you know, but I enjoyed the act. I can’t say I ever seriously thought about creating, or anything of the like, but… Well, I didn’t mind picking up a lover for a casual bout of interfacing every now and there. But ever since I joined the Autobots? Nothing. There was no one with a working equipment, or the will to discover it -- and if I had even hinted it existed in the first place to anyone not in the know already, I would have gotten shipped to the Stockades before my next paint layer had the time to start flaking.”

Ratchet coughed. Did he truly need to hear that?

“Say, Ratchet… if you ever want to ‘practice’ interfacing theory…” Ratchet’s Spark skipped a beat. “Well, I know I’m not the most attractive mech around, and that you’re probably not exactly interested anyway, but… if you ever need more than… than what you do on your spare time, I’m here, okay? After all, that’s what roommates are for. Just saying,” he added quickly when Ratchet rose up suddenly, staring at him in disbelief.

There was a long, long silence, during which Ratchet didn’t stop staring, and Ambulon shifted uneasily on his berth, wondering if perhaps he hadn’t pushed his luck too far.

“As… generous as your offer is, Ambulon,” Ratchet finally said, taking deep breaths, “and as… tempted I could be… I’m afraid it isn’t reasonable.”

Ambulon deflated a bit, though he still found himself hopeful. Ratched had said he was tempted to accept, after all. Which meant he could be convinced still. “May I ask why? Please?”

Ratchet sighed, crossing his legs nervously. “I’m… I consider myself open minded, and rather accepting. And I would lie if I didn’t say that actual, real interfacing sound interesting. But the eventual consequences…” he trailed off, uncertain.

“You’re afraid of ending up Carrying,” Ambulon realized.

“Yes, I am,” Ratchet confessed. “I read about the common myths. I know only one time is sufficient. And yes, I know we can request contraceptives, but… It’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”

Ambulon blinked, then chuckled, amused. “Oh, dear. Yes, I understand, and honestly? I respect your choice. But you know, Ratchet, I think you’re being over cautious here.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well…” Ambulon paused. “Yes, you can end up Carrying even the first time you interface. But it only happens if you and your partner’s systems are perfectly compatibles -- something that I suppose we will cover soon in class. And the Decepticons took precautions around that,” he added.

“Precautions? What kind of precautions?” Ratchet asked, optics narrowed.

Ambulon smiled wryly. “Well, to begin with: you didn’t think the roommates assignations have been totally random, did you…?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who else want to hug Ambulon? ;)


	6. Ratchet: Class (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet listens to his teacher and muses back on his conversation with Ambulon...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the 'Estriol' spark-type was removed from the official material, but when I wrote the chapter, it was still mentioned on tfwiki and... I was too lazy to change it. lol  
> That said, enjoy the chapter. :)

“As we saw at the end of our last class, students, the common myth that is sadly far too widespread among the young members of our species coming into adulthood and stating that ‘you can’t end up Carrying the first time’ is just that: a myth. However, such a misconception is excusable, as well as understandable, for eight times out of ten, the saying proves to be true. Can one of you guess why?”

There were a silence, only troubled by the noises of pedes shuffling nervously under the tables, and the coughs of one or two students who looked to be very embarrassed to be here -- just like they were in about every class where they talked about reproduction, Ratchet thought distractedly. They were considerably more lively when they had more general classes, such as in-depth anatomy of certain frame-types. Even Sparkling-care brought more participation. Reproduction 101? Not so much. Nobody dared to speak, but it didn’t seem to surprise or bother their teacher in the least.

Perched on his desk, the feline-like Cassette Glit just nodded, his tail batting the air. “No one? Really no one? Remedy? Rest-Q? Nothing to say?”

Both medics just shook their head, Remedy pinching his lips, and Rest-Q just glaring. Ratchet found the latter ridiculous; there was no point in trying to antagonize Glit. Even if the subject put several of them ill-at-ease, Glit was candid and helpful, which couldn’t be said of all their teachers. The felinoid never went out of his way to antagonize or embarrass them either, so why should they? If anything, they should be grateful he didn’t go into crude details like, say, Knock Out or Pharma.

For a moment, Ratchet wondered if he should raise his hand and answer. Thank to Ambulon, he knew what the felinoid was hinting at, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to be noticed. He didn’t want to deal with questions from his fellow Autobots, and given how nosy some of them were… He didn’t fancy having to seclude himself in his quarters for a moment of peace.

Glit shook his head as everybody stayed silent. He tucked his paws under him with a sigh. “Oh, well… Perhaps I should start with something a bit simpler. Mmm…” he hummed thoughtfully for a moment before nodding. “Let’s see. Who here can cite me the main Spark types known? Ratchet?”

The white and red mech startled. “Uh,” he said, blinking, before getting his bearing back and falling back on familiar information. “So far, medicinal field has discovered four main ‘groups’ of Sparks, thought there is a plethora of rarer types that fit into a fifth general group while they wait for an official name and classification,” he quoted from memory. “Though it often takes a scan to know for sure, it is possible to recognize one’s Spark type by a series of signs: color of the Spark, frequency of the beats,... All in one, the four named groups are called Estriol, Ferrum, Isomeric and Vitreous. They themselves are divided by polarity, thus why one isn’t simply referred as ‘Estriol type’, for example, but as ‘Estriol-positive’ or ‘Estriol-negative’. The most frequent is…”

“I think it’s enough,” Glit interrupted him, though he was smiling and nodding along. He looked at the whole class. “I’ll take advantage of this opportunity to correct another misconception some of you, among the younger, might have. Researches have proven that a large majority of the ‘signs’ permitting to identify a Spark type are untrustworthy. Though it is true that a majority of Vitreous-type Sparks are blue, some can be as green as Estriol-types, and the reverse is possible as well. Negatively polarized Sparks aren’t always darker in color than positively charged ones either. Though it hold some basis, never think for a klik you have a type figured out at first glance. You must always, always do a check through scanning for a confirmation. Is that clear?”

There were nods as well as quiet acknowledgements, albeit some reluctant ones in the row of students, and Glit rose to his paws and started to pace his desk.

“As stated in one of my previous class, a Spark-merge isn’t always necessary in order to end up Carrying. If one’s systems are running high on energy, if enough transfluid has made its way to the gestation chamber, if the frame is too warm and can’t cool down immediately following overload,... Lots of factors can influence a successful conception -- or a surprise one. However, transfluid plus Sparkmerge does make the risks of ending up with a newspark rise up very high. That said, a Sparkmerge doesn’t always result in a pregnancy -- and in some case, it just CAN’T,” he stressed the last word.

There were whispers around, and Ratchet leaned back in his seat. Here they were; the part Ambulon had confided him.

“You see, a Spark type is more than just a medical data or curiosity. A Spark type is an important part of conception, because in order for a couple to manage a successful conception, their Spark type must be compatible -- or, at the very least, synchronized enough to manage a full merge.” He stopped to pace the berth and sat down again, paws tucked under him, tail moving right and left. “To simplify, and to give you a more concrete example, it’ll be easier for two Sparks sharing the type ‘Isomeric-positive’ or two Sparks sharing the type ‘Isomeric-negative’ to kindle. If a couple is Isomeric-positive and Isomeric-negative, then the two can also kindle with relatively few troubles. Things are more complicated, however, when one half of a pair is Ferum-positive and the other is Estriol-negative -- and again, this is just an example. But one must gather that those two types work on very different wavelengths, thus why they aren’t ‘ _compatible_ ’ for kindling.” He paused. “Do you follow? Or do you have any question?”

There were murmurs, and a brave hand rose. Ratchet glanced at the face of Red Alert, who was frowning even as she spoke. “The way you said ‘ _compatible_ ’, it seems to imply the Sparks from your example can be or become so. Is there truly two types of Sparks that won’t be able to produce an… offspring together?”

“A good question, and I thank you for asking it, Red Alert,” the felinoid acknowledged. “The answer to both your question would be ‘yes’ to the first and ‘no’ to the second. Given enough time, any Spark type can become compatible with another. It demands however frequent intimacy and merges, thus why some couples won’t be able to produce an offspring before hundred of stellar cycles. Their Sparks need to start beating and aligning themselves on a common wavelength, and such things take time. But what is time, when one is very in love?” the Cassette sized medic said doctorally.

There were a lot of shuffling around, and Ratchet put his chin into his hands as Glit called for order, before turning his back to them and using his transformation sequence to change his paws into fully functional and articulated arms, wrists and hands. He grabbed a pen and started to scribble down on the board, stating aloud a few more facts as his pupils started to take notes. Ratchet didn’t bother to; thank to Ambulon and a few choices of books, he was settled on the subject.

His mind wandered back, Ambulon’s face and voice flashing before him…

_“They didn’t make room assignment perfectly at random, you know. They had access to our medical files, or if they didn’t, they composed their own when they prepped us for ‘regeneration’. This means they knew exactly what kind of Spark-type all of us were, so they could assign to each room pairs that were unlikely to Spark Up each other, should we decide to try out interfacing, as they have encouraged us to.”_

_“Admitting it’s true, they had no way to know if it would work or not! I mean, anyone could have gone seeking a friend to… test it out rather than his roommate!”_

_“Possibly, possibly. But I think there’s a psychological trick here. Think about it for a second. You just learned you can interface, using parts of you you didn’t even suspect the existence of. First off, you’re in shock, and in denial, and you swear you’ll never do it. But everyday, you go to class, where you’re being told interfacing and reproduction and how good it can feel, to the point it’s start making its way in your mind, slowly eroding your convictions. Then you first start to touch yourself, in private, when your roommate isn’t here, or in the dark of the night, when you’re sure or think he’s deep in recharge. But soon enough, it isn’t enough anymore, so you’re actually starting to consider what you never wanted to… You actually want to experience. But you don’t know who to turn to; you don’t trust the ‘Con to ‘deflower’ you, and you’re too ashamed to actually say it and ask for help to your friends. And the odds your roommate is in the same case? They’re pretty good. So, one thing leads to another, and in the end… you don’t go seeking somewhere else. At least, not right away, until you feel confident enough, and you’re smart enough to pick up contraceptives methods as well as techniques to stop conception to occur.”_

_“... You know, I could learn to hate your logic; it’s so twisted…”_

_“It isn’t so much logic as good insight into the mind of the ‘Cons, something I’m very privy to, to my great regret. But, cheer up, Ratchet; now you know there isn’t much to fear if you and me we ever… Well, if you’re ever interested, just think about it.”_

Ratchet’s shoulders sagged. Even now, several solar cycles after his conversation with Ambulon, he still didn’t know what to think. He only had a sole certitude; whatever he decided to do, he’d first have to consider his options very, very carefully.

Because, as tempting as it was… Actually interfacing was still a big step he wasn’t sure he was ready to take.


	7. Rung: Class (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rung is a dutiful student, even when some of the subjects they're learning make him uneasy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I might need to mention a **TRIGGER WARNING** here, as this chapter will discuss the idea of **rape**. Nothing graphic happens, but it will be mentioned as well as some sensitive matters such as victim blaming. Not in details, of course, but it's still mentionned.
> 
> Those who are uncomfortable with the topic and would like to skip it are welcome to do so.

Most of the time, Rung loved the additional classes they were supposed to take. The discovery -- or rather, rediscovery -- of forgotten body mechanisms drew all sorts of interesting mental and psychological points he was eager to study and debate with his pairs. There were some truly fascinating aspects to consider, from the initial reaction to the discovery to the natural evolution of this first reaction, positive or negative, toward a form of total reject or grudging or total acceptance.

Already, the psychiatrist could see the groups forming up -- though it might not have been that obvious to one not studying psychiatry and psychology in details. But the signs were here, in the way some mechs just gravitated to each other, either united in their rejection of what they considered a body horror, or in grudging acceptance it was there but not their thing. Those were currently the largest ‘pools’, though there were more and more mechs just sinking into acceptance and curiosity, which Rung knew would just lead to full commitment to the new reproductive and recreative process of interfacing.

The whole mental process was something of wonder, and Rung would have very much liked to study it in depth and details. Sadly, he had to grudgingly admit he couldn’t objectively do so at the moment. Not when he himself was part of such an evolutionary thought process. There was no way he could remain objective and non influenceable during the whole study, and so he had to regretfully let go of what he considered a most fascinating paper material.

Surprisingly, some of his fellow psychiatry trainees seemed to get his frustration -- then again, perhaps not so surprisingly; one didn’t go into the field of psy-ops without being incredibly perceptive of themselves and those around them. They never exactly spoken of it aloud, but Rung could read easily into covert words and what wasn’t being said, so he had no problem deciphering what his fellow Autobots meant. The orange and white mech couldn’t say they all shared his fascination, but at the very least they acknowledged it.

Now, the Decepticons students? They did more than acknowledge; they actually spoke out on the matter. Sincerely, Rung wasn’t sure of how to consider them most of the time. They were so… different. Not different in a bad way, mind you, but their thoughts process was very unfamiliar to him; he couldn’t read them like he could any Autobot, despite seeing them every solar cycle for class and sharing pleasant if a bit awkward conversations with them. Not that they shared many classes to begin with, of course, but there were still a couple.

If he really was honest with himself, Rung wasn’t sure it was only because they were Decepticons. It was more because… because they were young and naive but at the same time, incredibly insightful and knowledgeable. Yes. That had to be it.

Decepticons students had lived for thousands of stellar cycles -- enough to be considered ‘old’ by Autobots standard. But at the same time, they had only ‘grown’ into their adult frame recently, and were still considered young by their own culture’s standards. They hadn’t spend their whole online cycles learning from books and getting hand-on experience in psychology, like Rung had. Instead, they came from various background, and had only started digging into any psy-related matters recently -- barely a dozen or so stellar cycles.

They knew less than Rung and most of his fellow Autobots -- and indeed, they were taking classes in basic psychology or in some specialized matters Rung knew on the tip of his digits, as was befitting ‘First Cycle Students’ -- but when it came to courses such as ‘Sparkling Psychology’? The orange and white mech admitted he was humbled.

It was very strange; despite all his readings over the matter, for Rung took his studies very seriously, if only because he wanted to be able to go back to treating his patients who really, really needed his help, it felt like he was unable to quite grasp what most of the Decepticons students grasped almost immediately, naturally.

“You shouldn’t beat yourself too much over that,” one of them, a black and dark green young Decepticon called Clang had stated once as he offered Rung a drink one evening after class.

“It’s normal you don’t quite grasp it. You were never a Sparkling to begin with -- well, not like us. We started with a rudimentary thought pattern, which evolved as our frame grew and our processors upgraded themselves, thus allowing room for more complicated thoughts. You? You came online with fully operating processors. I don’t say it’s a bad thing, not really, but it didn’t allow you to grasp the little things, or to naturally develop an evolutive reasonment. Why would you have, when you basically already knew everything since the first time your processor booted up? Nobody had to told you that fire was dangerous, or not to drink the cleaning solvent, or that acid would burn your plating -- it was ingrained into your thought process already. Us? Our Creators told us, but we weren’t exactly listening or understanding, until we saw the effects or experienced them ourselves.

And I think it’s might be why you Autobots have some difficulty understanding Sparkling psychology; you’re using too much of your own experience as a comparative, when you shouldn’t. A Sparkling’s mind is nothing like the one of an adult, even a protoformed one. I get this is difficult to understand, since you have had little to no interaction with real Sparklings so far -- although I believe they intend for the psy-ops class to take a field trip and a general internship with young patients once you have the theory down, so you’ll definitely get to correct that oversight in time. Anyway, don’t over think too much about what a Sparkling can or cannot understand. And if you really want to know how their development rate goes… well, there’s a section in the Library you should check out. Not the one about Sparkling, but the one about drones’ evolution. Yes, yes, I know. But if anything, you should compare Sparkling’s growth more to… to Eradicon drones’ evolution, from mindless to sentient. It isn’t quite right either, because Sparklings are sentient the very moment they’re out of the gestation chamber, but I think it’s closer to what you seek, on a purely processional way. It might help you understand the course better.”

That? Had probably been the best advice had received in a long time, and he had basically haunted the Library for a while, tracking down books on Sparklings and drones evolution and drawing parallels. This had certainly helped him along to stay on par with the rest of the class, and Rung could only wipe his visor-glasses in contentment as he thought back over the matter. Accepting to go take a drink with a Decepticon, something which had gotten him sharp looks and comments from his fellow Autobots, had been well worth it.

He didn’t speak much to Clang again, but the rare few times they shared a course? They could cordially nod at each other and even hold small talks over courses content without feeling ill-at-ease. It was, Rung was conscious, a bit progress for himself and for the general Autobot-Decepticon cohabitation on the Campus, something still too many of his fellow students had yet to fully accept. Which, frankly, was unhelpful if not stupid. The Decepticons were there, and the fact wasn’t magically going to change overnight because they refused to deal with it. Sometimes, he ached to just drag someone to his office to talk about it or perhaps shake them to make them see how unhealthy their comportement were.

Forget Sparklings. Forget interfacing. They needed to let go of old grudges, if only to be able to function well in their new environment. Rung really wished they could see it. But, ‘bots will be ‘bots, he supposed, and he couldn’t make them see the light if they refused to, psychiatrist or not psychiatrist.

Granted…

When they studied subject like the one at hand today, Rung could understand why his fellow Autobots could be so reluctant to open up to their Decepticon brethren and kept being wary.

“What you must keep in mind, however, is that in interfacing situation, _‘yes’_ means _‘yes’_ , and _‘no’_ means _‘no’_.” Standing by his desk, their current teacher, Froid, looked at them with a very serious face. Students were utterly still and silent, and Rung could see some of the Decepticons trainees grimacing, looking utterly serious. That… never bode well. Froid was interesting enough as a teacher, even if personally Rung disagreed with some of his outlooks on the various matters he was teaching them. When he was so serious, though? Rung knew better than to interrupt, and knew he had to become extra attentive.

“Interfacing, as we discussed previously, far from being solely a meant to reproduce ourselves by Siring or Carrying a newspark that will be nurtured by our body, is also a mean to express love, care, affection and trust. It is a form of intimacy that couples should be able to fully enjoy, or a mean of recreation for ‘bots seeking comfort. Sadly, there is, as they have always been and probably will always be, mechs out of there who will twist interfacing and what it should truly be by turning it in an tool of fear, suffering and power. Interfacing is normally fully consensual. When it isn’t, then it is what we call a rape, and although it is something reviled, and swiftly and severely punished by our laws, it has never stopped sick mechs to go after innocent ‘bots. You must become aware of this in order to treat the eventual patient who will fall under your care -- as much as I hope you never have to deal with a rape victim, you must be prepared to. And you must also be aware of the different views society held over such an act.” He paused, looking around and gazing at each student for a moment to make sure they were attentive.

“Rape can take obvious insidious forms. Some expect the act to always be violent, and to come from a perfect stranger. It isn’t, however, always the case. Rape can occur from coercion by your supervisor on your job -- using your fear to lose your job if you ever refuse his advances. Rape can occur between two lovers who had been in a consensual relationship for stellar cycles; if one of them say ‘no’ and the other continue, then it can be legitimately considered as rape. Rape can come from your own relatives, though this is a subject we will develop later on, in another module, along with the adequate treatment to give to abused Sparklings.

As I said before, forcing another to interface with oneself is reviled and punished. However, those mechs, and some around them, will try to justify or seek excuses for their behavior, trying to sooth things and diminish the horror of their acts. You will probably hear them say, for example, that their victim never said them ‘no’. You must however consider this: how could a drugged or heavily intoxicated mech give informed consent? If one’s judgement is altered by whatever substances or mental condition, then any interfacing could occurring between that mech and someone else could be considered rape.

Another common excuse given by rapists is that their victim ‘encouraged’ them, or ‘lead them on’. This, you’ll find out soon enough, perfectly false. Nobody ever ask to be violated. As I said, rapists seek out excuses to their own behavior and try to instead pin the blame for their actions on the victim. Victim blaming, I’m afraid to say, is one of the main reasons a lot of incidents go unreported to the Enforcers and Medical Corps, the ones who could and should help the victim. Other rapists pretend they were ‘entitled’ to interface with the victims, from one reason to another; they may have gone on a date, and the rapist may have paid for his victim’s meal or a gift. This, students, is no reason to think you should have sex. Interfacing is never ‘entitled’, no matter the circumstances.

The subject is large, which is why we’ll treat it gradually over the next orbital cycles. I hope you’ll excuse me to not enter too much into details yet, but it would be too much to take in.

Let’s get back on track, shall we? We were speaking previously of reasons rapes might not be reported by the victims. As stated, some don’t because they fear being ostracized and blamed for what happened to them. Shame is also a factor to why these incidents aren’t always reported; in a society where one must appear strong and in control, who would readily admit they got overpowered, manipulated, violated? For most victims, it isn’t an easy subject to talk of -- even less so when they’re traumatized by what happened to them. Many blame themselves, thinking that, if they had been more careful, if they had been less friendly, if they hadn’t follow an unknown mech, if they hadn’t drunk that much, then nothing would have happened. This is, once more false. I want you to keep in mind that it’s never the victim’s fault. He or she can’t be held accountable for the lust and perversion of other mechs.

Another factor to why some incidents aren’t reported is threat from the rapist or his associate and relatives to the victim, keeping him or her in such a state of fright he or she doesn’t dare to act. You may receive such confession, and despite the professional secret that should unite you to your patient, I must remind you that you may have to call in the Enforcers -- or at least, find a way to reassure your patient and convince him to do the call.”

Froid paused again, looking once more at his students, evaluating their reactions before shaking his head and continuing his monologue.

At his desk, Rung tightened his fists, grimacing. He had wondered, of course, if there were ways to abuse them with their newly revealed interfacing array, but he hadn’t thought it’d be so bad. He covertly glanced around, his grimace worsening as he looked at the shocked, pale optics of some of his fellow Autobots, just as unsettled as he was, if not worse.

He felt like banging his head against the desk. So much for mechs trying to rebuild the bridge between Autobots and Decepticons, with revelations like this ones! But, then again… better be aware of the danger, before they were released in the general public. Rung thought there might have be little to fear on the Campus, where they were carefully watched. But outside, once they had earned back their right to practice medicine? There wouldn’t be the same guarantees.

Nervously, he drummed his fingers on the solid surface of his desk. What he was hearing was bad… horrifying… but all the same, necessary. They all needed to be aware of the problems they could face, not only with their patients… but also what they could fall prey to themselves. It was a sobering, hard thought to have, and Rung wondered if perhaps he should take an appointment with Froid or any of the other residing psys to share his newfound nervousness. Then again, given the dark, shocked faces around him, he might have to get in line and take a number, he mused.

Glancing to the side once more, he took notice of Clang, sitting at the edge of the row. Mmm. Perhaps there was an alternative here.

After all, sharing insight with other students, especially students for whom the subject didn’t seem to be brand new, might also be a good way to reassure oneself...


	8. Ratchet: Class (III)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> A later update than I had originally planned, but September and the first half of October were just crazy. That said, enjoy the latest chapter of 'Medical Matter'. :)

If their was one thing could Ratchet respect about Glit, it was hand down how he answered to provocations and snipping comments, even in the midst of teaching his classes and answering his students’ questions.

“No, Cure, not all of Cybertron’s wildlife reproduces through budding -- actually, only a minority do so. I understand why you would think so, though, as budding is the most documented feature to which you had access.”

The felinoid Cassette’s tail beat the air as he walked over the edge of his desk, looking at Cure, one of Ratchet’s fellow Autobot, with amused fondness. The mech shuffled, cheeks bright red in embarrassment. “Don’t be ashamed, mechling. The question has merit, and it is better to clear away any misconception right now rather than allow it to fester,” the diminutive feline said gently, smiling reassuringly at Cure.

Ratchet shook his head in disbelief. It was still mind-boggling for him to see how… nice Glit was. When he wasn’t being sarcastic.

“Class, this is an important lesson. Unlike what you may have heard, Cybertronian wildlife and most of the common fauna on the Commonwealth’s territory don’t use ‘budding’. I’m sure some of you had Cybercats?” he asked around, and was answered by some nods. “And I suppose that at random times, they would disappear for a few solar cycles and come back, followed by three or four smaller Cybercats, which hold the designation Cyberkittens? Which, according to what you knew, was a sign they ‘budded’?” More nods.

He sat down abruptly. “Well, it’s high time I destroy that myth. Cybercats, like 95% of cyberlife, is composed of sexed individual who, like us, carry their youngs in a gestational chamber before birthing them. However, unlike mechs and femmes who are, for lack of better term, bi-gendered and as such able to Sire as well as Carry an offspring to term, most wildlife members are composed of uni-gendered individuals. As such, Cybercats are either ‘she’ or ‘he’ individuals, without middle ground. An animal is either a Sire or a Carrier, but never both,” he explained smoothly.

Ratchet tilted his head to the side, deep in thought. That resembled organics… 

“Cybercats, as it is, bear live youngs like we do, though they do usually have what we call ‘litters’, which means they give birth to a large number of small individuals, unlike Cybertronians, who bear a single young at time -- skipping of course the case of Spark or Frame-Twins, or the very rare case of triplet, which should be covered later on in this course. And, unlike us, Cybercats and cyberfauna in general don’t get to reproduce whenever they want -- nor do they, asides of a few select species, interface to produce those offsprings outside of a set period of time. We mechs interface not only as a mean to reproduce, but also as a recreational activity; it isn’t the case of cyberanimals.

Cybercats, like a lot of their brethren, have a set time window in order to conceive youngs. During that time, their systems act up, and they start craving interfacing. This is what we call a ‘heat’. Pay attention, class; some mechs can fall ‘in heat’ themselves, due to a quirk of coding, leftover from our distant past. Don’t worry, though,” he added for the benefice of the startled students, Ratchet included. “Such an happenstance is rare, and easily dealt with. We will speak of it later. For now, let’s resume wildlife reproduction, shall we?

Cybercats usually give birth to litters counting three to five Cyberkittens. Other species can give birth to more individuals as well. The gestation period can last several orbital cycles, and the proprietor of the Carrying Cybercat can be none the wiser to the state of its pet, because unlike us, Cybercats don’t ‘show’ when they’re Carrying. One has to look for subtle signs in order to determinate if their pet is Carrying or not, such as increased appetite, longer recharges patterns, rising of core temperature,... They’re sadly easy to overlook, so the arrival of the litter is often a surprise. Then again, Cybercats rarely give birth in the open. To guarantee the safety of their offsprings as well as their own during the birthing process, they tend to look and hide themselves away in a secluded, secured area, where they won’t have to watch out for possibles threats and predators.”

“But isn’t that dangerous to give birth without supervision from a medic?” a small voice asked, making Ratchet look behind him to see who had spoken, breaking away optics contact with Glit.

The felinoid shook his head, smiling. “If that was a mech? I would say it’s inadvisable, because mechs need a lot of supervision, especially if it’s the first time they carry, due to the strain it can put on their systems. But cyberanimals don’t really need help to birth their young. They’re more sturdy than us on a lot of aspects, and though one can look over a pregnancy and emergence in order to ensure everything go well, they don’t need us or any kind of help we could provide. One could say they instinctually know what to do, like we do, but don’t fall prey to panic as first Carriers to when they start to feel the first pains of labor.

I’d like to use the occasion to point out that not all cyberfauna species give birth to live young. Species such as Glass-Birds or Metallo-Reptilians do instead lay ‘eggs’. Those are basically spheric or ovoidal shell, filled with nutritive liquid such as gelled oil and rich trace elements, in which underdeveloped youths finish their development until they’re strong enough to break the shell. I’ll also add that Metallo-Eggs are a very enjoyed delicacy in some circles, and before you start grimacing and retching, I’ll mention that the eaten ones are what we call ‘non feconded’ -- there never was a possibility they held a youth to begin with.

Some species of flying mechs, such as the Seekers nesting on the faraway planet of Intel, a Decepticon possession since millions of stellar cycles, also lay eggs. This is not very widespread, through, and once again come from a brand of coding that isn’t found into the general mech population of Cybertron.

Then, of course, you have the species who ‘bud’ their offsprings, such as some Metallo-Reptilian species, who are genderless and lack interface arrays entirely. I trust I don’t have to develop the budding process?” Glit asked, raising an optic ridge. Students shook their heads, mumbling. Budding at least was a familiar subject to them, one they didn’t need detailed and didn’t felt weird speaking about.

Glit gave the class a cursory look before continuing his speech. “That said, if a pet is having problems during his Carrying cycle, you’d best bring him to a veterinarian, who will be able to see to its health better than a random medic will. Veterinarians are, in case you’d ignore it, the medical staff who chose to specialize themselves in cyberfauna’s study and care. If any of you wish for more details or are considering a speciality in the matter, more supplementary classes should open soon, as soon as the necessary staff and teachers will be able to come. As veterinary sciences are low in order of priority, the Dean decided to first focus your classes on other matters. However, if any of you has specific questions or wish to get a better grasp of the subject, then I encourage you to seek out Professor Razorclaw, who’s currently on Campus; without being a veterinarian himself, he is an expert on the cyberwildlife native to the Manganese Mountains. Any other question?” the felinoid asker, straightening.

There were a silence. Then…

“Say, teach’, since you’re just a big Cybercat yourself, does that mean you have to consult a medic, or a veterinarian?”

Ratchet stilled utterly, and he was sure he wasn’t the only one. If the silence had been respectful and confused before, now it felt more like the silence one expected to find in a mausoleum, or at a public execution -- not that Cybertron had had much since Ultra inherited the title and position of Magnus. Slowly, so slowly, he turned his head to the side to stare at the one who had spoken, and refrained from groaning and facepalm.

Rest-Q. Of course it had to be Rest-Q. The mech had been an Elite Guard medic, and a prideful one at that, very vocal in his dislike of Decepticons. Being held captive on his old alma-mater’s Campus was probably grating on his CPU even more than it did for half of the class. However, they all knew better than antagonizing the teachers. Or at least, they ought to. But apparently, being a medic didn’t protect from being an idiot.

Glit had stilled too, though his expression gave way to a very neutral look. His tail, however, started to beat right and left at a very quick pace, making Ratchet wince. That wasn’t a good sign. At all.

“A good question, Rest-Q,” the felinoid said calmly. “I suppose this is an allusion to my particular looks, which are animalistic, as are most Cassette-type mechas? Well, let’s clear whatever question you might have about the subject, class. First off, I’m not based on Cybercats, as you seem to think, but on Cougaraiders, which a dangerous breed of predators -- I don’t think you’d fancy meeting a real, savage one in the wild, for you may not come out on top or, Primus forbid, alive from such a confrontation. Secondly, Cassettes-frames are only based in look on the cyberfauna that inspired them. Which means that, although our frames share a lot of details with our wild ‘brethren’, we are in fact far closer to sentient mechs. We do possess both interface components, spikes and valves, and we’re able to do a Sparkmerge. As sentient, we’re entitled and expect to be treated by a full fledged medic. However, I grant you that, due to some specificities of my own systems, I would not be adverse to consult a veterinarian, especially if I ever ended up Carrying. My model having specifically created to act as medic, despite my feline body, I possess some unique form of transformation affecting my limbs, as well as an enlarged subspace, which is bigger than my frame size would suggest. As such, for more security, I wouldn’t hesitate one moment to consult both a veterinarian and a classical medic at once. Does it answer your question, class?”

The Cassette medic was certainly polite, but… Well, nobody was going to risk raising his voice, that was for sure, Ratchet thought dryly. Even Rest-Q had paused, a surly look on his face.

“Any other question, Rest-Q?” Glit asked, deceptively calm. “Well?” he stressed, looking stern.

“... No, teach’,” Rest-Q mumbled unhappily.

“Good. I trust we can now continue the class without further interruption?” Students nodded. Glit paused. “Oh, and, Rest-Q? Out. You’re going to the Dean’s office.”

“What!? That’s not fair!”

“Rest-Q. As much as I like answering tricky questions, and as much as I’m a partisan of the ‘there’s no stupid question’ doctrine, I don’t like being taken for a fool. I leave you the choice: either you go out of your own volition to go see the Dean, who I have already informed of your visit and the ‘why’ of that visit, or you might go there dragged by the Campus Security, who is also informed you need to go to the Dean’s office,” Glit stated calmly. “So, unless you want to face the indignity to be rolled over, strapped down to a gurney and muzzled with a face-clamp -- which I’ve been told Security just itch to do -- you’ll be on your way before I finish to count until ten… nine… eight…”

Rest-Q stuttered, before tightening his fists and throwing a disgusted look at Glit. He snorted, then rose up briskly from his desk and walked to the door.

Glit shook his head as the door closed behind the troublemaker. “... three. Well, now this is done, how about we resume our learning? I suggest you take out stylus and whatever you need to scribble down. We’re going to go over charters and statistics, and I expect you to take notes.” He sat down over his desk, paws and tail tucked under him, and watched closely as everyone took out a datapad.

Ratchet drew his out with a little smile. Yes. No matter what they might said, Glit really was something, and as he had stated? He could really respect a mech able to bring someone on his knees or throw him out with just a few choice words.


	9. Ambulon, Ratchet: Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At night in their shared room, Ambulon and Ratchet discovers their respective bodies...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, finally the next chapter. Sorry for the wait, but I got busy IRL with IRL after finally finding a job. It's only a part-time one but it forced me to move and adapt to a whole new routine after almost three years of being jobless. Add to that trying to participate in NaNo -- I managed the 50,000 words but didn't finish the fic i'm working on yet -- and updating became the least of my worries.
> 
> Anyway, here's the long awaited chapter for the Ambulon/Ratchet shippers; enjoy ;)

Ratchet, Ambulon had decided the very first time the other mech had shyly kissed him, unsure of what he was doing, was a very easy mech to like, despite the sharp comments and the general grumpy behavior he tended to adopt with the world at large.

Now, Ambulon wasn’t in love with Ratchet, and he doubted he’d ever be; Ratchet just wasn’t his type. The former Decepticon was more attracted to smaller, more delicate and nicer mechs -- kinda like First Aid.

As far as friendship and casual interfacing went, though? Now, he really liked the other medic. Ratchet was easy to talk to, and he had simple wants or needs -- simpler than Ambulon had expected. But, then again, when he had first been protoformed and had learned about interfacing, hadn’t the Ward Manager been just as simple and easily sated?

He had been so young, so naive… and damn lucky to have found a careful and understanding partner. Eh. ‘Careful and understanding’; how weird it was to think of Pharma like that. The mech he was today sounded and looked like anything but. However, it had been a different time, long before the civil war, and what was more natural back then than a medic apprentice learning first hand knowledge with his mentor?

Decepticons at large frowned upon relationship between a newly protoformed mech who they considered too ‘innocent’ to make informed choices and a ‘full’ adult mech, but there was still a grudging acceptance of the practice, so long the older ‘bot didn’t take advantage of the situation. Ambulon had heard stories… but it had never happened to him. Young or not, he hadn’t been stupid, and a medic self-preservation protocols were strong enough he’d have backed off at the first hint of discomfort. And Pharma knew where the boundaries laid, and wouldn’t have crossed them back then.

The mech he was today? Ambulon wasn’t sure.

Pharma hadn’t been a bad mech when he had first met him and apprenticed under him… or at least Ambulon hadn’t thought so. He could be very tender in the berth, despite being somewhat brisk with anyone and everyone. He hadn’t been overly nice -- his berthside manners ‘sucked exhaust’, as one Eradicon nurse had once snickered as he helped Ambulon clean up a berth -- but he had been talented, and always smiling when they had to treat a newly expecting Carrier. For his young pupil, it had more or less be a proof Pharma loved Sparklings, so his decision to join the Autobots at the start of the conflict and his departure from Vehicon had come a surprise. Since, after that, they never had any news, Ambulon had thought him deactivated a long time ago.

Learning he had handed up siding with the Decepticons somewhere along the line was frankly surprising, and somewhat worrisome, though Ambulon couldn’t pin-point why he thought so.

Had he recognized his former pupil and lover? Ambulon didn’t think so. He had changed much since they rolled together in a berth, back on Vehicon. And himself had barely recognized Pharma upon seeing him across the classroom, standing proud as he greeted student to his class. Last he knew, the other medic had had a ground-based altmode. Seeing him reformated as a Seeker was… weird.

But, eh, given his own looks, he couldn’t complain about anyone else’s.

He had debated going over to the mech, and telling him who he was… who he used to be. But in the end, Ambulon had decided against the notion. The more he observed Pharma during classes, and the more he reflected on what he felt upon seeing him, the flaky mech had to admit he didn’t feel anything anymore for Pharma. Whatever feelings he might have had had been snuffed a long time ago, dead like the mech he had once been. Pharma was just a reminder he had had another life once upon a time, he supposed.

Yes, it was probably for the best to put that part of his past behind him. Besides, wasn’t it just what he had done, by never mentioning to Ratchet he had ‘known’ Pharma, and quite intimately at that? And for the last two orbital cycles, ever since he and Ratchet had sat down to have that one conversation over his true identity -- and assert the fact he was Ambulon, now and forever -- he had confided a lot of tidbits to the other medic.

“You’re over thinking again,” came the whisper to his audios, and Ambulon shook his head and glanced down to Ratchet’s face. White digits lightly stroked his cheek, and the flaky mech leaned into the gentle’s touch. “Care to share?”

“It’s nothing,” Ambulon rumbled, letting his hands roam over Ratchet’s body, searching for the seams and the little areas of plating which he knew where ‘hot spot’ that the other medic liked to be touched. Ratchet whimpered softly, but wasn’t deterred.

“‘Nothing’ doesn’t make you stare of in the distance while we’re in berth together,” he pointed out. “What’s wrong?”

Ambulon sighed. “It’s… not something I wish to share.”

Ratchet looked at him for a moment, optics slightly narrowed, expression thoughtful before he nodded. “Okay.” That was it. Ambulon felt a smile tug his lips upward, even as he leaned forward to kiss the other mech. That was what he liked with Ratchet. He never pushed him, never expected him to tell him everything. He respected his private life and thoughts, and that was more precious to Ambulon than anything else.

Ratchet’s lips were soft and pliables against his. The former Decepticon briefly nibbled on the lower one before letting his glossa run over both lips, then slide between them as Ratchet parted them, just enough to moan softly. The other mech’s hands fumbled over Ambulon’s frame, them too seeking for the sweet spots Ambulon liked to have stimulated.

On a medic frame, it was usually the hands, but only a poor lover would think there wasn’t any other erogenous zone spread on the frame. Ratchet, Ambulon had discovered from mutual petting, kisses and caresses, had sensitive chevrons, and he liked to be kissed in the neck. He also enjoyed soft, circling caresses on his hips and side. Ambulon himself melted for petting in the small of his back, or touch over the plating covering his Sparkchamber. He also, curiously, had sensitive receptors just behind his knees, something Ratchet had loved experimenting with.

Ratchet’s engine revved, and Ambulon chuckled softly. “What do you want me to do, tonight? Do you wish…?” he whispered softly, tracing the edge of Ratchet’s valve with a finger, savoring the moan it elicited from the other medic.

“... no,” the other red and white mech whispered back. “Not tonight. Tonight, I just want… just want touch. If it’s okay?” He sounded uncertain.

“It’s always okay,” Ambulon said firmly. No matter what he may have wished for, Ratchet’s needs had to come first. He needed Ratchet to be relaxed and to trust him, if they wanted any chance to make their interfacing sessions work. Trying to assert himself as a dominant, not respecting his lover’s wishes, would definitely destroy everything they had been working on so far. You never, ever rushed or browbeat a mech without interfacing experience through it; that much, Pharma had impressed on him. To keep a healthy relationship, it was important to let your inexperienced partner come to term with what he wanted by himself. So far, Ambulon thought he hadn’t do a bad job. Ratchet was certainly more confident than he had been when they had first started out.

That said, he was always a bit hesitant whenever he requested something, probably mindful of the fact Ambulon himself wished for more.

Well… he wasn’t exactly wrong. It was true enough that Ambulon would have wished to spike, or be spiked more often, or even be given or be giving more blowjobs. Ratchet didn’t dislike them, of course, and he did request them at least once a decacycle, but in general, he was more… tactile oriented. The other mech liked foreplay, and perhaps because he still didn’t know what to do with himself and what he really prefered in the berth, more often than not foreplays were pretty sufficient for him.

More than one mech wanting to ‘tap that aft’, to be vulgar, would have found the situation frustrating, their patience running tight over being ‘spikeblocked’ and not having what most considered ‘real intercourse’. However, Ambulon had nothing against a night in the dark, curled around Ratchet’s frame, exchanging kisses and caresses, mutually touching until both of them enjoyed a tactile overload. It was rather relaxing and intimate, the way they rubbed each other’s external node, or mutually massaged each other’s spike while kissing, no penetration needed to have each other keen in pleasure. And then there was the cuddling that followed each overload, being wrapped around each other, snuggling in the warmth of their bodies and the covers brought over their frame... 

This too was real intercourse, Ambulon decided as his fingers brushed against the other medic’s external node, making Ratchet whimper and try to turn, something not possible with Ambulon straddling his frame as he was. It was gentler and more emotional-focused, but it was still intercourse, and a good way to have Ratchet build confidence.

White digits dug between his legs, brushing against the inner part of his thigh and raising up ‘til they found his own external node, slowly and gently pressing it between two fingers. Ambulon keened.

“Ratch…”

“Hush,” the other medic murmured, digits just playing and rubbing over the small node that was already getting swollen with pleasure and want.

And, even as returned the favor and rubbed his own digits against Ratchet’s node, spikes ignored for now, Ambulon did just that.


	10. Ratchet, Ambulon: Admirer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Receiving a gift is usually nice, but Ratchet can't help but be suspicious...

“Well, I think it’s safe to say you truly have gathered yourself one secret admirer, Ratchet.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” Ratchet groused, glaring at the nonchalant Ambulon who, sitting on his berth, hands crossed behind his head, was watching him with an amused smile on his lips. Him, and the package deposited on Ratchet’s own berth, that Ratchet himself was watching dubiously and warily. “So you’re sure it’s not you who…?”

“Ratchet,” the other cut in, “For the last time, no, it isn’t me. Not that I would mind giving you a gift, if I had enough savings and had any insight into what you may like to get, you know, but right now, my finances aren’t doing so great. And if I ever gave you a gift, it would be in person. I would not anonymously drop it in our dorms like this one. And, by the way? You should open it. With the way you’re looking at it since we entered, you’d think it was a bomb.”

“It could as well be,” Ratchet groused, continuing to eye the package dubiously.

After all, who the Pit could and would give him a gift? It wasn’t as if he had made many friends here. Oh, he was on friendly terms with most of his fellow Autobots, on the principle that they were Autobots and needed to present an united front when faced with the Decepticons. But none of them were that close -- aside perhaps of Ambulon, with whom he had a ‘special’ relationship. There was also First Aid; he had a soft spot for the youngster, though he didn’t act on it too much. He was also on good terms with Rung, who was an understanding mech. And Red Alert as well, he supposed, though she was more a companion when they were mutually drinking their sorrow -- mostly hers those last few orbital cycles.

His team had been his friends, and they probably would have been thoughtful enough to try and give him gift; Optimus certainly had, that one time, with that bottle of vintage energon. And they had tried to humor Sari with some gift-exchanging around that cold period on their planet, to ‘follow the tradition’. Yeah, if Bumblebee or Optimus or Bulkhead or even Prowl had been there, he would have understood why there was a mystery gift on his berth. But they weren’t here… and he didn’t know what became of them.

Asides of them, and the few mechs and the one femme he had cited… no, he wouldn’t dare to claim anyone else as his friends. So that gift really bothered him.

People had seldom given him gifts without expecting something in exchange. So, yeah, perhaps the package still unopened on his berth wasn’t a bomb, but it certainly was highly suspicious, and he was reluctant to stand near it.

“Ratch’,” Ambulon sighed, startling him. “It’s just a gift. Something someone brought you because they probably thought you’d like it. It’s not going to blow up in your face -- or at least, I don’t think so, because if it’s a bomb, then it’s definitely not ticking. And it’s too soft-looking to be one anyway,” he pointed out.

Ratchet grunted. True, even wrapped, it didn’t look like much… It probably was some kind of heating cover, he grudgingly admitted. If that was the case, he couldn’t say he wouldn’t enjoy the attention; snuggling into warm covers after experiencing just how much the temperatures outside had dropped now that Cybertron stood in the shadow of most of his neighboring planets was something he -- and about all mechs he had spoken to -- enjoyed. Still... 

“I’m still not at ease with opening something I don’t know the sender of,” he grumbled. “For all I know, it could come from Minerva, and I don’t want to encourage her to pursue me!”

There; that was perfectly reasonable argument to be suspicious, was it now? Not encouraging the already far-too-obsessed femme by accepting anything from her?

Ambulon just shook his head with amusement. “One, I doubt Minerva can afford to give anyone gifts -- provided she even think about it. Two, even if it was from her -- which, once more, I doubt -- then what do you fear exactly? Her ‘guardians’ insisted she’d be fitted with a chastity belt, remember?”

Oh, right, Ratchet thought, feeling embarrassed. Minerva -- just like First Aid, now that he thought about it -- fell under a special category of medical students: those who were still considered ‘young’ enough to still need a referring guardian/in loco parentis. Ratchet hadn’t bothered to learn who were the so-called guardians/parents, and First Aid had never volunteered much info anyway. The older medibot had only gathered what he knew from various conversation.

Apparently, it was required from younger ‘bots to regularly write to their guardians, to report on their health and integration on the Campus, among other things. Younger ‘bots could leave the Campus with their guardians on classless solar cycles, should the administration have been warned beforehand. And some younger ‘bots received extra credits if their grades’ curve was good, or little gifts such as decorative elements for their rooms.

All in one, it didn’t seem to be an heavily binding arrangement… except that the ‘guardian’ could very well refuse his pupil’s enrollment in some class, or force him to sign up for others. That, and take decisions he thought were the best for his ‘pupil’s continued well-being’. Recently, that had included a number of worried ‘guardians’ deciding their charges had to be immediately equipped with a chastity belt to prevent them from ‘making a bad decision and having an accident’. That one made Ratchet snort. Apparently, someone somewhere had wisened up on the fact that letting Younglings with active interface arrays free to interface, even for the sake of ‘learning about their own body’, wasn’t the smartest move ever made. Thus why ‘bots like First Aid and Minerva now sported an visible accessory on their frame.

Now, Ratchet wasn’t going to complain about Minerva. That young femme could be scary, and it reassured the white and red medibot that, even if by some miracle she managed to enter the room while he slept -- his biggest nightmare recently -- he wasn’t going to find her straddling him upon waking up.

He shuddered at the thought.

“So she does. Doesn’t mean it isn’t an half-baked plan of her,” he groused again. “Or from someone else.”

Ambulon twitched. “Ratchet? Stop procrastinating and finding yourself excuses. Open that damn gift so we can finally think about something else!” Ratchet glared at him, but after a long, loud sigh, he reached for the package with shaking hands.

As far as package went, it had been wrapped with care -- excessive care, even, as if whoever had done it wouldn’t have settled on anything but perfect in the way the pearlescent grey paper was folded and bound. The same could be say for the ribbon -- it was tied just right, solid but able to be undone just by pulling on it right, and falling into almost artistic ringlets all over. The shade of golden yellow was a nice contrast against the grey. It was… artistic, and perfect. For some reason, it unnerved Ratchet.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled apart the folds of paper… and blinked. “Wha…?”

Ambulon rose from his berth and walked over, worried. “What? What did you get? What… oh.” He blinked surprised. “Well, it’s nice? Certainly nicer than our standard issued ones,” he offered.

Ratchet didn’t answer. He was too busy staring at the pair of arm warmers he held in his hands.

Funny. Before they came back on Cybertron, he had never heard of arm warmers -- or any stuff like that. Well, the organics on Earth had worn something similar in their own cold season, but… Oh, well. The point was, Ratchet had never encountered arm warmed and other assorted items until, when the cold winds of Cybertron started to blow and the temperature drop even lower than they usually were for this period, all Autobot students had been notified to swing by the Pharmacy and pick some.

Wearing them wasn’t forced, of course, but it certainly was strongly encouraged. Like interfacing. The arm warmers and other items such as leg warmers, doorwing warmers, shawls and scarves were however a lot less bitter adjustment to swallow. Personally, Ratchet was grateful for them. Keeping their frame warm was important, and pulling on the warmers helped, with the side bonus effect of having to reroot less energon toward the sensitive parts they covered.

Protihex was a colder place than most, much colder than Iacon ever was, to say nothing of the cities in the southern hemisphere. The cold wasn’t, as a general rule, dangerous to their kind, but it could become very inconvenient. Energon tended to frost -- not freeze, never, at least not on Cybertron, even at its coldest -- in the lines if one wasn’t careful, slowing down in the lines, before starting to flow too suddenly for the lines to adapt once warmed up. The sudden influx was sometimes sufficient to rupture exposed lines. Busted energon lines around the neck, ankles and wrists had been part of the most common ailments Ratchet remembered treating when he had been young… er.

Given the newly ‘regenerated’ Autobots’ tendency to badly handle the cold, he had been in no hurry to see what the cold of Protihex would bring them. But of course, the ‘Cons had covered the problem before it even truly began. Getting the Autobots to accept… That had probably be harder than what they had expected, but in the end, by pointing out the advantages, they had managed to convince a lot of people to at least give it a trial period. Nobody liked to burst a wrist line; it was painful and very inconvenient.

Besides, as the pharmacist had put in, smiling, medics had better take good care of their hands, and with the warmers, it was much easier. That argument, if no other, was enough to convince the most reluctant members of their clad. These last stellar cycles, Ratchet didn’t think he had spotted anyone without at least a scarf to protect his neck cabling… 

Of course, since they were given a pair already, Ratchet had not considered picking out another for sale -- even if, he had to admit, the ones spotted by the Decepticons students were much nicer, with patterns and a wider choice of colors. What was the point on spending money for something he already had in one exemplary?

Those ones were pretty, he had to admit, made of a soft matter, softer than the one of the standard issued ones every Autobot students had been given for the duration of the cold season. Much prettier, too; the standard ones they had been issued were all made in a dull red, grey or black. This one? They had been knitted into a blue color gradient, so pale it was almost white to the fingers and slowly becoming darker to the point of being almost black by the time it reached the elbow. He absentmindedly pulled at the matter, unsurprised to find it very stretchable. All in one, it looked very warm, something ideal to protect his hands and wrists whenever he ventured outside.

His gaze occasionally slided to the rest of the package’s content, which held an assorted scarf and leg warmers, equally done in the same blue color gradient. And there, picking from a fold in the scarf… he bended forward to pick the card, hands still shaking slightly.

“‘ _A simple token of my appreciation_ ’,” he read aloud. “No named expeditor. Of course,” he groused, though it lacked ire. His fingers were still buried into the soft material of the arm warmers. Elixir, the pharmacist, had mentioned they were different types of ‘wools’ that could be used as material, the softer the higher quality it was. Ratchet had never been truly swayed by quality products before, but it felt… kind of nice to be gifted some. He just wished he knew who had done so, or why. ‘Appreciation’ could cover a lot of things, after all.

“Secret admirer, Ratch’,” Ambulon shrugged. “They tend to not give out who they are until they think they should.”

“And you don’t find it creepy?”

“Truthfully? If you had found interface toys or a portrait of you or anything like that, I might have gotten slightly worried,” the other mech said, absently rubbing at a flaky spot on his arm. “But a set of warm clothings? It doesn’t ring my alarm bells. It sounds like something a fellow student would give you; sensitive, adapted, not too flashy and practical. I told you I started up healing miners, right? I saw things like that, back then; fellow Eradicons who were too shy to go talk to someone up close, but tried to let them know they had a crush by letting little things: a new pickaxe here, a bowl of energon goodies there,...” He shrugged. “It could be sweet or embarrassing as the Pit, but pretty much harmless.” He looked again at the arm warmers in Ratchet’s hands. “Of course, given that most students aren’t that rich to begin with, and Autobots less than all… You’re admirer is most certainly a Decepticon. Is it a problem for you?”

Ratchet bite his lips, thinking, shoulders sagging. “Honestly, Ambulon? I don’t know at all…”

But still, he tightened his grasp on the pair of arm warmers, savoring the softness…


	11. Ratchet: Pharmacy Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events of 'Admirer', a worried Ratchet decides to investigate...

“Hello there! May I help you? Oh, it’s you Ratchet; come in, come in!”

“I’m already in, I am not?” the red and white mech grumbled as he slowly made his way to the counter of the Campus Pharmacy. As he walked, he glanced at the rows of medical devices and products. Although the pharmacy furnished most students for free, provided they had a prescription, there were also extra students could buy, all neatly tagged and priced, ranging from extra-heating covers to anti-addiction patches for cy-gars smokers and neutral, low-risk level medicines, such as light additive powders. There were also odder things, such as ‘hypoallergenic oil goodies’, Hydrogen-Honey for sore throat intakes, rows of visor-glasses frames to try on, contraceptives devices, artificial lubes for interface play,...

“What, not even a ‘hello, Elixir, how to you do?’” the femme manning the counter mock-pouted. “Someone is being extra grumpy today. Something on your processor, Youngling?”

Ratchet glared. “I’m not a Youngling. And yes, I suppose so,” he added after a klik of silence.

Elixir nodded wisely, but didn’t push the matter further, something for which Ratchet felt grateful. Unlike some of her colleagues, who were real busybodies unable to let a matter drop if they sensed the slightest bit of unease in the students, the orange and blue femme never tried to pursue matters she felt she was intruding on. That, and the fact she was friendly and not a Decepticon, as proved by the lack of purple badge of allegiance on her frame, endeared her easily to a good half of the students forced to drop by the Pharmacy regularly.

She had never clearly stated so, but Ratchet had gathered Elixir had been -- still was -- a Neutral. There had been few on Cybertron during and after the War, as most had bolted out the moment the conflict started in earnest. Most of them had settled in colonies on the fringes of the Commonwealth, and well outside of it, where they lived their lives quietly and did commerce with both factions alike. Last Ratchet had heard, the strongest concentration of Neutral colonies had been held on the moons between the worlds of Com and Garo, where they acted like a buffer between the two warring factions.

Some liked to snort and scoff at them, saying they lacked convictions. Others, though, pointed out it took very strong convictions to stand your ground when both Megatron and Ultra Magnus tended to look at you cross-opticed, even if they respected your choice not to join in the end.

But, whatever.

As previously stated, Elixir being (most likely) a Neutral helped sooth volatile tempers. Personally, Ratchet found her too cheery for his tastes, but at least she was easier to deal with than, say, Apothecary, the Head Pharmacist. Her biggest fault, to the white and red medibot, was the way she kept calling him ‘Youngling’. Granted, since she looked to be as old as Kup Minor, what’s with the wrinkles around her optics, so maybe she had a right to…

“Very well,” the older femme simply said. “Now, what can I do for you today? Is it for a renewal of your prescription?” she asked as she started to type on the keyboard of her computer, adjusting her visor-glasses to read her current client’s file. “You still have a decacycle left on your actual one, so I doubt it’s for that. Unless… did you use it all already?” She frowned, peering at him. “You know you’re not supposed to exceed the prescribed doses, right? As a medic, you must know how dangerous it can be…”

Ratchet gave her an icy glare. “I know full well what I can or can’t do with bars and pills, than you!”

As if he’d ever do such as stupid mistake as double a medically approved, sensitive and well-reasoned prescription! Even if he knew there were ‘bots out of there who were stupid enough to… 

Most of it was due, Ratchet knew, to a lack of understanding of medical prescriptions and how they worked or why they were prescribed the way they were. A mech who was told he needed to consume more iron or copper, for example, thought he just needed to take the whole bottle of soluble pills a pharmacist handed him to be fine -- even if he had been advised to take only one or two at once with his daily energon.

Things didn’t work like that. A lack of trace elements in a body had to be restored over time -- it couldn’t just be solved by one massive taking of said trace elements. More often than not, the additives would get burned off pretty quickly, and the health problem would appear again. If you respected your prescriptions, though, then your body gradually corrected the problem, until the point you didn’t need the supplements anymore.

Most mechs didn’t get either why, when advised to consume medical grade energon, they needed to go and buy a specific one. ‘Medical grade’ was a generic name for the stuff; inside of it, however, there were dozens of different batches, all with their own specificities, much like the cocktails and the different energon and oils brands served in bars. Why people never thought it was the case, it was a wonder to Ratchet.

Anyway, if someone prescribe you medical energon from batch S.8745, then you shouldn’t try and take some from batch M.9584 instead. The chemical composition, nutritive value and richness was different, and didn’t suit all sick systems. You risked to purge your tank, at the very least, or more serious problems if you were truly unlucky. A bad combination of the wrong medical grade energon and sudden intake of too much additives tended to have messy results. Sometimes, it could become deadly, if a bad mix corroded your tank or your fuel lines… Which lead the very reason pharmacists and pharmacies existed in the first place: some products were just too dangerous, and some mechs too ignorants to just let medical furnitures and associated products in free access.

Normally, medics could oversteps laws and regular procedures and get what they wanted on simple request. But ever since they were dragged down to simple medical students? It wasn’t the case anymore. As far as pharmacists were concerned, Autobots medibots were just civilians like any others until they won back their medical markings. Anything they requested and took was closely monitored.

It was frustrating… but also, Ratchet understood with dread, easily understandable; when you knew what mixes could be lethal… how tempting was it, for the most desperate among them, to just make sure they’d overdose?

There hadn’t been any reported incident, of course… but who knew how many close calls there had been? Suddenly, the regular decacycle medical appointment with both a psychiatrist and a Decepticon doctor made much more sense. The ‘Cons were on the watch-out.

The fact that most of the Autobots also needed supplements in the wake of ‘Project Regen’ was just a bonus, he was starting to say.

Recently, with the return of the cold winds, students had also been prescribed doses of antifreeze, which they all took without complaining. The rest of the prescription ranged from oil to lubricate stiff joints to mild sedative substances to enter recharge more easily. Ratchet himself, like most of the ‘bots he spoke with, took additives to heal a case of brittle plating. Though he wasn’t on medical energon, he had been prescribed various pills and bars to take with his daily energon incomes. Prescription was renewed every orbital cycles, in exchange of the empty meds bottles, a way to check they weren’t stockpiling them. Random and thorough dorms inspections completed the settings, and woe to the ones who were found trying to con the system.

Ratchet didn’t cheat. Trying to was just stupid, especially given how severely infractions could be dealt with by the ‘Cons. Elixir might not have implied he was, but it was close, so he supposed he could being excused from his sudden outburst -- even if the femme was watching him with a frown now.

He sighed. “Sorry. No, I’m not here for my renewal. I… I need something else,” he grunted, shifting nervously in place. Elixir observed him for a moment, head tilted to the side, her oval-shaped visor-glasses having slide down her olfactive sensor.

Suddenly, she grinned. “Are you here for contraceptives?”

Ratchet sputtered. “What?! No! Nonono!!!!”

Elixir shrugged. “A pity. Sorry for the assumption, but when I have nervous young mechs telling me they need an extra something, it tends to be contraceptives. You wouldn’t believe of many of them hesitate to ask; they’re so flustered…”

“If you always say it like that, I can understand why!”

The old femme chuckled. “Yes, perhaps. But it’s rather fun for me, don’t you think? Anyway, what do you wish for, if not ways to ensure you won’t end up Carrying too soon? Unless…” she narrowed her optics and checked Ratchet over seriously, making the white and red medic take a step back in surprise. “You don’t need… you don’t need a Carrying test, right?” she said in a lower voice.

Ratchet’s jaw dropped. “Of course not! Why would you think…?!” He stopped himself from ranting and pinched the bridge of his olfactive sensor. “Okay. No, I won’t ask. I’m not going to try and indulge in a conversation that make me way too uncomfortable to be healthy. What I wanted was a simple… information.”

Elixir raised an optic ridge, obviously not fully convinced, but nodded sharply in agreement. “Ask away.”

Grimacing, Ratchet pulled the arms warmers he had recently received out of subspace, and handed them to the pharmacist, who took them with a slight frown. “I have… received those recently. Someone dropped them anonymously, with some assorted accessories, to my dorm. I was wondering if perhaps he had had them here? Since you sell pairs here…”

“Oh, so someone picked up a secret admirer? How cute!” The femme chuckled. Ratchet just groused and glared.

“Very funny. Now, do it comes from here or not?”

The femme looked at him over her visor-glasses. “You’re a very direct individual, are you not? Why do you care so much? And assuming it comes from the pharmacy, what will you do with the info? ‘Cause, you realize I won’t tell you who did, even if I knew? I’m not in the habit of revealing who bought what from the store, just so you know.”

“Because I’m not comfortable receiving gifts from perfect strangers?” Ratchet offered. “And… I’m not sure what I’d do,” he confessed. “I just want a confirmation. The whole thing make me ill at ease…” he trailed off, not knowing what else to see. Why did that simple pair of warmers bothered him so much, he couldn’t say. He didn’t even understand it himself, so how could he make other people understand?

Elixir sighed. “I see. You’re not exactly sure where you stand when someone is looking at you with interest, eh? That’s nothing to be sorry about. I have known quite a few Younglings who didn’t know what to think the first time someone tried to court them,” she tried to sooth the medibot, whose cheeks burned in shame. She inspected the warmers more closely. “Well, I can tell you right away it doesn’t come from here. You felt the texture, the warmth? It’s not synthetic fibers or simple Sheepitrons or Electrosheeps’ wool, it’s Gallium-Goat’s mohair.”

“What’s the difference?” Ratchet asked, curious.

“Quality, mostly,” Elixir explained. “Sheepitrons like the ones you find on Cybertron have low-quality wool, which can sometimes irritate plating. That’s why it’s usually mixed up with synthetic fibers, to make it smoother and softer to the touch. Electrosheep’s wool is naturally softer and denser, so it’s a better insulating material. It’s also more expensive. The warmers we distributed students who didn’t own a pair already, like you, are made of mixed Sheepitrons’ wool and synthetic fibers. The ones we sell here are either that, or pure Electrosheeps’ wool -- most are a mix though, to stay in the price range students can affords.”

“And Gallium-Goat’s mohair?”

“I was coming to that. Gallium-Goat’s mohair is a top-quality produce, denser than Electrosheep’s wool by far. It’s simply one of the best natural insulating fiber we have. You won’t find any on Cybertron itself -- the species that produce them are indigenous to some of the planets the ‘Cons have conquered. I know some specimens have been imported since the Decepticons came back, but on the whole, it’s not a material you’ll find easily lying around. And, as you can guess, it’s worth a lot of credits. Especially if hand-knitted, like those ones are, and dyed with natural dyes.”

She shook her head. “I’d say you’re a lucky one because whoever sent you that has taste -- and wealth. No way a standard, Autobot student can afford it with the little wages they gain on the side, or with the allotment given to them by the government. So, that means two things, Youngling. Either you’re admirer is someone with a rich family to back him up and pay for his whims, or it’s a full-time worker mech with a decent salary,” she stated.

“For some reason, it doesn’t exactly reassure me,” the red and white mech muttered.

“I’d say it should,” Elixir said back. “Think about it for a klik, will you? You obviously attracted the interest of someone with means, and if it’s someone already settled in life and able to make expensive gifts to get your fancy? Then I’d say you could get nicely settled right after finishing your classes. Assuming of course he’d be willing to go further than gift-handing and willing to make a further move on you -- which he might not while you’re still a student.”

Ratchet raised an optic ridge. “Why the Pit not? I’m not considered a minor, am I not? So why…?”

“Because you’re still a student, Ratchet,” Elixir simply stated. “You’re of age to consent to interface with who you want, but the fact remain that, at this point, Decepticons in general have a lot more power over you than what would feel right to start a relationship.”

The white and red medibot gave her a look. “So you think whoever send me the gloves will not act up due to ‘power imbalance’? I find that doubtful.”

“Well… “ Elixir paused. “It’s not so much he or she won’t act on their feelings than having to respect some boundaries,” she worked out slowly. “Trying to court a student isn’t reprehensible, but the slightest misstep could be interpreted as an unacceptable abuse of authority and could land them in trouble. I mean, nobody would want a student to get pressured into a relationship they’re not ready for or can’t be equal in. That’s why I don’t think you have to worry too much; the people around here are decent ones.”

“Decent ones? Really? That’s not what everybody whispers…”

“Youngling, you’ll notice that, despite his reputation as a great medic, Scalpel wasn’t invited to teach,” the femme said in a light tone, startling Ratchet. “He’s not the ‘decent sort’, if you will, so they don’t want him around terrifying the staff and the students. Anyway,” she added, “I wouldn’t worry just because someone older or wealthier than you may have developed a crush on you.” Her expression softened as she took in Ratchet’s flustered expression and drew conclusions. Ah, young ‘bots getting worked up over discovering they were being crushed on… “I know it might feel weird, and slightly worrisome, especially if it’s the first time you have to deal with a crush…”

“Actually, it’s not,” Ratchet cut her. He grimaced. “There is a younger student that is… quite taken with me. To the point I was really glad when they issued the chastity belt for the younger years; I just knew she wasn’t the kind to take ‘no’ for a real answer, and…”

He shrugged and the pharmacist blinked.

“And you worried it’ll be the same again with whoever is trying to woo you?” Elixir guessed, humming. She stayed silent for a moment, then finally shook her head. Of all the rotten luck… Now she understood better why the red and white ‘bot seemed so wary. “Okay, you had a bad experience and reasons to feel on edge right now, I get it. However, you should keep an open processor. I can only advise you to let things follow their course, and watch how they evolve. Perhaps you’ll have a good surprise, yes?” she smiled. Seeing Ratchet didn’t seem convinced, she quickly added. “And if really you find yourself too bothered by the gift or by whatever form the courting will take, then you should talk with your assigned psychiatrist and with the Campus Security. They’ll probably be able to give you better advice than me, yes?”

Ratchet nodded slowly. It wasn’t what he had been hoping for, but he supposed it was a start…

Elixir pushed her visor-glasses back up. “So… If that’s all, Youngling, then perhaps you should be on your way; I’m sure you have still more classes to attend. Unless I can convince you to buy some contraceptive devices? I’m sure you’ll find them very useful, especially if you and your admirer end up…”

“No, no, I don’t need anything,” Ratchet yelped as he made a grab for the arm warmers, tucked them quickly into his subspace pocket and hastily turned. “Thank for… for your time!” He didn’t quite run to the door, but his steps were definitely quicker than usual.

Left alone, Elixir chuckled even as she shook her head. Ah, young, uncertain loves… It was so cute.


	12. Hook: Faculty Lounge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hook doesn't think things through; hopefully his fellow teachers can give him some good advices.

“Someone,” Glit mentioned almost casually from his perch over a desk of the faculty lounge, “is having a bad day.”

Knock Out rose his head from a homework he was analyzing and glanced to the Cassette-frame medic to the new arrival who had entered the room dragging his pedes to the floor and grunting, the perfect picture of someone who just went through the Pit and back in the course of a few megacycles. “What may have given you the idea?” the vain red mech chuckled.

Hook glared at them both as he dropped in a couch and made a rude gesture at them. “Ha, freaking, ha,” he grumbled, flopping on the whole couch with a sigh of misery that just begged for attention.

Glit and Knock Out glanced at each other, holding a silent conversation with their gaze alone, covertly asking who was going to deal with their estimated colleague today. None of them were particularly in the mood to deal with Hook when he was in that mood, but well… someone had to, if only to keep the peace around here. Knock Out discreetly raised the homework he was busy correcting, and after a while, Glit finally gave an almost imperceptible nod. The red mech’s optics flashed before he continued reading, washing his hands with the possible drama which was going to unfold while Glit, after a last lick at his energon saucer, jumped on the floor and calmly made his way to the couch where Hook was still turning and sighing in exaggerated, abject misery.

“There, there. What’s troubling you, my dear fellow?” the felinoid said as he jumped on the arm of the couch and settled down, tail nicely curling around his hinder legs. “Did someone give you a phenomenally bad answer once again?”

That was the simplest question to ask, and one of the most likely reason for their fellow medic to play the ‘pity me’ card.

Hook was… Well, if Glit was a partisan of the idea there was no stupid question, and readily accepted to answer anything his students may have been wondering, no matter how incongruous it could be, Hook believed strongly in both stupid questions and stupid people, and he couldn’t suffer either for long. Which was, kinda, why the faculty, while accepting to have him as a teacher, reserved the matter of Sparkling-Surgery for the Third Cycles students and beyond. Anyone asking a question Hook thought below him or that he felt the students should already know was in for quite the sarcastic and possibly hurtful answer. After one too many promising young medic being reduced to tears and almost dropping his studies, Hook had promised he’d make some honest efforts, and he had filled his promise… mostly.

The green and purple mech snorted. “If only. I deal with idiots every solar cycles; it’s not like I’m not used to them by now. And do you honestly think I’d make such noises over such a slight matter?”

Glit was a well-educated mech, so he didn’t flatly answer ‘yes’. However, he stiffened slightly, and someone observant would have noticed the way his tail beat the air twice, very fast. “Then what is the problem?” he asked instead. “Did the Dean ask you to oversee more classes? Has someone gotten to your hidden stash of high grade? Did you have a spat again with the maintenance technician over your class’ misworking heating system? Some trouble perhaps with students’ behavior?”

That covered most of Hook’s usual complaints. But the purple and green mech just twitched, and Glit raised an optic ridge. More serious than that, then?

“Come on, Hook, what’s wrong?” the Cassette-sized medic cajoled, wondering if he would have to play the common Cybercat pet and actually jump on the other medic to cuddle with him and purr to sooth him. It wouldn’t be the first time he was forced to use such… drastic measures.

Hook made a vague handwave. “Oh, you know, just stuff,” he mumbled.

Right. Glit sighed. “Hook? Let’s be honest here, shall we? ‘Just stuff’ isn’t an answer. It never is with you. Now, I give you a choice: either you stop playing with my nerves -- and Knock Out’s own, even if he’s trying not to pay attention to the discussion -- and you tell me what really bother you, or I’m siccing Inkblot on you,” he warned.

Hook’s optics flashed. “You wouldn’t!” he protested, sitting up briskly. No way he was spending time dealing with a psy; those mechs got into your CPU in way he found highly uncomfortable, and ever since one of them dared to ‘diagnose’ his tendency to seek perfection as a possible sign of mental illness, he looked at most of them with cross optics. Inkblot especially, the nosy fragger!

“Try me,” Glit said wryly. “Hook, for all the respect I have for you, I’m not in the mood to see you falsely mop around, bemoaning your tragic life without actually telling us what is bothering you. I’d like to point out I have still lessons to plan, and that I intend to fully enjoy my break by taking a well-needed nap before my shift at the local clinic. However, in order to take said nap, I need to feel relaxed, something I can hardly do while you’re here playing drama queen, making my medic programming flare up with ‘need to care for the distraught mech’. So, you’ll give me the pleasure to be truthful before I decided that I need a new scratching post,” he finished, making a show of raising one of his paws and drawing his claws out.

“What happened to the ‘healer, do no harm’ thing?” the green and purple mech asked, watching the felinoid Cassette warily, but his voice betrayed some amusement.

Glit snorted. “It took a holiday the moment we became soldiers for the Decepticons’ cause. Hard to council a doctor’s vows with a soldier’s duties, as you well known, though I try to think I didn’t too badly,” he added with some modesty.

“You gave the higher ups some nasty processor aches, what’s with your tendencies to heal even enemy soldiers on the battlefield,” Hook smirked. “Though I can applaud the nerves and skills it takes to not let one single casualty on either side offline; that was very… daring.”

“Thanks. And don’t change the subject, Hook; start talking, or fear my claws,” Glit purred.

The purple and green medic leaned back in the couch with a big sigh. “I seem to have failed again to attract the attention of one of my pupils, which I found very frustrating.”

Glit’s optics flashed. Oh. That. “You tried to invite Ratchet to go drink a cube again?” Hook grunted, and Glit prompted further. “And, from your looks, I guess he once again refused?” Another grunt, and the felinoid sighed, resisting the sudden envy to just facepalm. Really, it was getting ridiculous.

“Hook… there’s no need to weep in misery each time one of your offers is turned down, you know that, right?”

“I just can’t believe he’s turning me down,” the other medic grumbled, as if he hadn’t heard him -- which was probably true anyway. “I know dozens of peoples who would just throw themselves at me I had even gave them any hint I was interested in them. And him? Noooo, of course, it’d be too easy, too simple! He just has to look at me, raise an optic ridge, and say he has other classes to go to or that he’s otherwise busy!” He grunted again. “Does he even understand the chance I’m offering him?”

Glit coughed discreetly as Hook continued to rant. It was always the same old story, it seemed. Hook never dealt well with rejection, no matter from whom it came from. Which was pretty ironic, given he was usually the one doing the rejection in the end. Hook wasn’t some young mech anymore, and he had had his lot of ‘infatuations’ before. Glit had known a couple of them rather well, and he had known the other medic long enough to know how a relationship with the surgeon usually ended: either Hook decided he could find someone better and dropped his latest conquest without ceremony to seek someone else or, rarer, Hook ended being dropped. That usually resulted in a surly, verging on verbally abusive surgeon for orbital cycles, who dragged himself around with a grimace on his face, glaring at everything and no one in particular.

The last happenstance had been… oh, somewhere around five thousands stellar cycles ago, Glit mused privately. Ever since, Hook had swore off dating. At least, until they came back to Cybertron and briskly announced out of the blue he was considering doing so again, after meeting a ‘very interesting’ mech.

Many, Glit among them, hadn’t raised an optic ridge. After all, Hook was free to do as it pleased him. Then, they had learned he wanted to pursue one of the Autobot students and suddenly, optic ridges had raised ‘en masse’. It wasn’t so much the ‘dating a student’ part which, though uncommon, wasn’t illegal either -- and Hook was known to have done so before, once or twice. It was the ‘Autobot’ part that boggled most of their fellow faculty teachers’ minds. Hook was well-known for the disdain most Autobots inspired him, even the medics -- and besides, Autobots were little more than Younglings, especially when it came to the fine art of love, dating and interfacing.

All in one, even if dating a youthful, willing and gushing Autobot was a wet-dream for a lot of Decepticons, most of them fully acknowledged it was easier said than done, as aside of the obvious distrust they had for anyone wearing the purple brand, Autobots ‘of age’ were still getting adjusted to their newly regenerated frame, not to mention getting used to the very concept of interfacing and, furthermore, the concept of dating as the Decepticons knew it.

Dating an Autobot, though it was judged possible and was already happening here and there, was the result of a lot of hard work, patience and understanding.

Something that, sadly, Hook didn’t seem to have fully grasped yet.

It was, Glit mused, the mech’s own fault for having only dealt with what the Cassette-sized medic felt were ‘easy relationship’. Hook was used to mechs and femmes being easily swayed by him and falling to his pedes in adoration, for he was a well-known, renowned surgeon, not too bad looking as far as mechs went, but also quite wealthy -- which was more than enough to make anyone take a double-take.

Hook’s main problem, in the felinoid’s opinion, was that he never had to really work to make a relationship work -- and Glit doubted he truly ever wished to until now. Hook’s flirts and various optic candies tended to be genius in their fields, or up-and-coming, successful mechs -- something that was a huge turn-on for the egotistical surgeon -- but they also tended to be… shier in private, nodding along to anything Hook said or wished of them. There, Glit felt, laid the problem.

Hook wanted, and needed to be challenged in order to thrive. The mech loved perfection, and pretended to like when things run smooth. But in truth, perhaps in answer to the difficult times they had all experienced during the war and in the first stellar cycles of their exile, the surgeon needed a certain among of… ‘conflict’ to be able to give its best, be it in his work or in his private life. The more difficult something was, the most likely he was to truly apply himself to make it work. If something wasn’t challenging, then he grew ‘bored’, for a lack of better term. And when he grew bored… well, the number of exes he had spoke by themselves.

Thus why Glit thought that trying to date an Autobot might actually just work for Hook. If anything, Autobots weren’t going to fawn over him and fall directly into his arms. Ratchet’s refusal upon refusal whenever Hook tried to get him to come and share a drink with him -- his usual seduction method -- were proof enough that Hook’s ‘notoriety’ and ‘charm’ weren’t going to help him much, if at all, in that particular case.

However, Hook was reluctant to admit it, it seemed, and in the meanwhile, he made a real circus of himself each time he went through another polite refusal from the mech he was targeting. And Glit had to deal with him without resorting to just hit him over the helm to get some sense into his CPU.

“Hook… is he even aware you’re trying to court him?” he sighed as he let himself drop on the arm of the couch, chin in his paws.

“I fail to see how someone could be naive enough not to notice,” the surgeon said acidly.

“With Autobots, you’d be surprised. Come on, Hook; think! Does his files ever mentioned he ever ‘dated’ someone before? Or even had a romantic relationship of any kind? Excluding, of course, what might or might not be happening between him and his roommate?”

Hook looked displeased for a moment -- probably fuming over the fact someone had beat him to the genius Autobot medic -- but eventually nodded reluctantly.

“They’re not all as ingenue as you seem to think so,” he warned, “but since most of them consider that hardline links are the summum of romance and intimacy… Yeah, I think you might be onto something,” he sighed as he flopped on the couch again.

He chose not to comment on his current crush and other members of the student body’s berthroom habits; although he didn’t mind having a lover with some experience, getting a virginal Ratchet in his berth had been a secret fantasy he had briefly entertained. Then a member of the Campus Security patrolling the dorms’ corridors at night had reported the discreet but easily distinguishable noises in a certain room, and a brief check with the laundry room’s attendant had confirmed the facts. Damn that Ambulon!

He truly hoped the two were just into causal, ‘learning’ interfacing, and not considering a more serious relationship. If they did, any shot he might have at the Autobot medic would be utterly ruined!

“Why doesn't it just work?” he mumbled as he thought back about his previous attempts to let Ratchet know he was interested. Obviously, the simple method of offering him a drink wasn’t working -- if anything, it seemed to make the younger medic take a step or two back. Hook wouldn’t quite say Ratchet was avoiding him -- he just couldn’t, as Sparkling-Surgery was part of his cursus in order to graduate with honors, as he seemed to want to -- but the mech certainly seemed to try and vacate the room faster than his comrades the moment the bell rung the end of the lesson.

He was asking far less questions too -- which was a pity, as Hook usually enjoyed the tricky ones he tended to ask clarifications on, and it had nothing to do with trying to show the younger mech how intelligent and smart he was, no.

As it was, he was starting to feel at lost over what he should and could do. It wasn’t the first time he tried to romance one of his students, of course, but it was the first time he was being clearly refused -- and not just because whoever he had set his optics upon wanted to play coy. In Ratchet’s case, it was frank incomprehension or worse, disinterest. Though Hook doubted -- and dearly hoped -- it wasn’t the latter.

In normal times, he had no doubt he would already be rolling on a berth with his latest catch behind closed doors. Here and now… he had no idea of what to do to even have Ratchet glance at him with any form of interest, asides of the politeness and respect that Hook was due as a teacher. Obviously, showing off his intelligence through the lesson plans wasn’t sufficient, or else the mech would have already fallen into his waiting arms. That left him with very few options, sadly.

He couldn’t just order the mech to stay around after class ended, just to speak to him and try to woo him -- it would be very improper for a mech of his standing, not to mention an abuse of his authority. The Dean wouldn’t appreciate, and Campus Security would start looking at him with a twitch in the optics. Same things with trying to follow him around to try and get him in a private conversation -- someone would think he was cornering him for nefarious purposes or something!

Feeling unnerved but determined to try and get the mech to look at him, he had even send him anonymous gifts, depositing them in his room, on his berth, while the younger mech was in class. That… hadn’t worked quite as well as he had hoped. Ratchet had obviously enjoyed the present -- Hook had almost preened like a Platinium-Peacock when he had caught a glimpse of the white and red mech wearing the arm warmers, leg warmers and scarf he had sent him -- but at the same time, he had gotten tenser and, according to the rumor mill, was wondering if he might have some kind of stalker shadowing his steps.

How… humiliating. He wasn’t a stalker, for Primus’ sake, and it was utterly embarrassing that someone might think so. It was just a set of warm clothing! And a few boxes of sweets… and perhaps, yes, he should have put a less mysterious card with them… But he was just trying to woo Ratchet!

And he was failing. Why was he failing? He had no idea, and he just couldn’t wrap his mind around that… 

He must have spoken out loud, because the next thing he was aware was Glit sighing deeply. “You really have to ask?” At the surgeon frown, he elaborated. “Hook, he’s an Autobot, not a Decepticon. He has no reason to fall for you just because you’re… you,” he said politely. “And how the Pit do you want him to even think you’re interested in him when you go all wrong about it? Of course he’s not going to go around with you for a drink; Autobots were never big fans of teachers/students relationships, and I’d be surprised if they even considered it could exist in the first place. Besides, I’m going to repeat: he’s an Autobot. He doesn’t think like one of your usual flirts, and he might not even like the same things as them, or you.”

“He did like the arm warmers,” Hook pointed out, frowning.

“Everybody likes arm warmers once they get used to the idea,” Glit waved off. “And anyone would find such a gift thoughtful at the very least. But honestly, what do you know of that mech, Hook? Of his tastes, of his history, of his friends, of his family?”

“He’s a protoformed mech, Glit. He had no family and… Ouch! What was that for?!” The surgeon yelped as he shook the hand the felinoid had just clawed at.

“You idiot have a very narrowed view of ‘family’, have you not?” the Cassette growled. “‘Family’ isn’t just Carrier, Sire and siblings. Family can also be close friends to whom you bond closely. Honestly! If you don’t even know the slightest thing about the mech you’re crushing on, then drop the matter entirely!”

“Well… the plan was to date him to learn what he likes?” Hook defended himself, and Glit just humphed.

“You’re going to have to rework your approach of the matter, then, because it’s obvious so far you can’t relate to him on at least one thing and get a chance to know him better, then you’ll have no hope to try and woo him. And now, if you'll excuse me,” the Cassette said as he jumped to the floor, “I have a lesson to finish to plan and a nap to take. I’ll be in the lounge on the third floor if someone seek me.”

“You aren’t staying?”

“No offense, Hook,” the felinoid said dryly, “but I want some quiet, and given how you tend to mutter aloud when you’re thinking too much, you’re anything but quiet.”

Hook just watched his fellow Decepticon leave with his tail high in the air, looking like the perfect picture of dignity -- then he turned with a snarl toward the snickering Knock Out. “Something funny?”

Knock Out chortled. “Well, perhaps not for you, but me? I find it hilarious,” he said with a smirk as he put his chin in his hands, elbows on the table. Hook bared his teeth, and Knock Out just chuckled more. “You have to admit, it’s not every day you get a stern talk from our pet cybercat.”

“If he hears you call him like that, you’re the one who’s going to stop smirking,” the surgeon warned, though his lips curled up a bit at hearing Glit described as a ‘pet cybercat’. Honestly, one had to wonder what the mech who had custom-protoformed Glit had been thinking, giving him a mechanimal appearance. Sure, Glit was a fantastic medic, everybody agreed on this point, but it was far too easy to joke about him. Behind his back, that’s is, because to do so in his hearing range usually ended with a lot of claws marks to treat.

That made Knock Out grimace as he rubbed a hand against one of his arms in remembrance. He hated it when his paint was scratched, and Glit’s claws had been and still were a serious menace to his finish. “Noted. That said, he isn’t wrong, you know. You’re going at it from the wrong angle.”

“Oh? You’re going to give me dating tips? You?” Hook asked sarcastically. It wasn’t as if Knock Out and him were good friends, or anything of the like.

“Not tips, merely an advice,” the red Decepticon said as he leaned in his seat. “Whatever you decide to do, don’t rush things. Trying to seduce an Autobot is like trying to catch a nervous petrorabbit; you first need to make him used to you, to draw him in and deceive him with a good bait before making a move, but when you make your move? You must be fast, least he’ll run away.”

Hook just stared. “... Petrorabbit?”

“What? It’s the best comparison I could think of!” Knock out defended himself.

“And since when are you a hunter? Or a specialist on Autobot’s seduction for that matter?”

Knock Out shrugged. “Oh, you know how it goes; sometimes, you go to those nice little neutral space ports for supply and you set a temporary clinic, and of course you’re going to run into a few Autobots here and there. Now, since it’s neutral territory, you can’t just merrily shoot at each other, so you have to find a way to spend your time -- kinda like, oh, trying to outdrink soldiers of the other board. And that can lead to interesting times,” he grinned with a leer.

Ooookay. That was… not way too much information, but close enough. “Does Breakdown know of your hobby?”

That made Knock Out laugh. “Know? My dear Hook, how do you think the two of us met in the first place?”

And now it was way too much information, Hook decided as he tried to change subject. “You were speaking of a bait?”

“Oh, yeah,” the slightly younger mech nodded with a smile. “You want your Autobot to stay in the same place as you to begin with, right? So you need a good bait, something for which he’d be perfectly willing to spend time around you. Could be a rare bookfile, a concert ticket, I dunno. That depends what works on the one you want. But yeah, a bait is the surest way to just observe your target up close without him running away.”

“But what…?”

“Knock Out?” a new voice asked, and both medic turned to the door, where a sheepish looking Breakdown was standing, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand while he balanced a Sparkling in his other arm. Hook blinked. Since when Breakdown and Knock Out had…? Knock Out had always said he’d never carry, as it would totally ruin his looks and beautiful silhouette. As for Breakdown, the mech was a frontliner, so not exactly good Carrier material -- he had taken so much hits over the stellar cycles Hook wasn’t even sure the big mech had still a working reproduction chamber.

He peered closer. The Sparkling looked a lot like them, for sure. A dominant blue and red paintjob -- much like a mix of both ‘Creators’, with some white parts. At least, that’s what it looked like under the light blue, patterned dress the little being was wearing. That made him frown; had the Sparkling been sick? His scanners activated by reflex, but they came up empty. No lingering virus or anything. Hmm, curious. But, back to examining the baby. The little one had a red face, just like Breakdown. Tiny, pale blue visor-glasses with round lenses were perched at the tip of his olfactive sensor, obviously some sort of fashionable accessory rather than a medical necessity. He was petite looking, but then again, it was a Sparkling, and they all started rather small before gaining in mass.

Then he saw the optics: not red like Knock Out and the majority of the Decepticons, nor yellow like Breakdown, but a pretty shade of light, shining blue. Ah. Adopted, then. Well, he probably should have seen it coming; with so many Sparklings Autobots to adopt, it was only a matter of time before someone of his knowledge decided to bring one home. And, of course the couple -- and Knock Out in particular -- would chose one that could pass for their own by looks alone. The mech was vain like that.

Knock Out rose and chirped happily. “Breakdown! What a delicious surprise? Come to pick me up? And with our darling little Tracks at that!” he said as he walked to his mate and gathered the bundle of joy in his arms before kissing him softly on the fore helm and nuzzling him with sappy little sounds.

The diminutive Autobot, unlike some of the other turned-Sparkling ones the surgeon had to examine, didn’t fuss at the treatment. He seemed quite content to be cajoled -- that’s it, until one of Knock Out’s hands started to wrinkle his dress, to which point he started fussing and making disapproving noises.

Hook just had to blink. What the…?

“Aww, sorry, baby,” Knock Out excused himself as he straightened the fabric. “There; your pretty dress falls just right again!” he chirped before looking at Breakdown. “Was he good today? And what’s with the dress? I thought I had put him in a burgundy one with white trims today?”

“Well… there might have been some crying and stuff when I accidentally spilled some of his bottle on his previous dress,” Breakdown shuffled. “I hadn’t tightened the teat enough,” he admitted.

“Why the Pit did you try to feed him with a bottle? You have pouches, have you not?” the red mech said as he made the Sparkling bounce in his arms.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I just wanted to try with the bottle. It’s not like I’ll be able to breastfeed him that often once he’s put in the crèche during the day,” the larger mech grumbled. “It was a learning experience.”

“I can imagine. Did you manage to change him without problems?”

Breakdown coughed. “Well… it took a while, because our little one wasn’t satisfied with my first choice, or the second, or even the third. I had to go through half a dozen of overalls before I realized he wanted another dress. Then I had to seek the one he really wanted, and you can’t imagine how long it took! And then, he wanted another plushie to hold while we went out, because the old one wasn’t good enough for his actual dress,” he sighed. “Had to search through his toy chest before I got one he liked. Blue and white stuffed petrorabbit, with a red ribbon around its neck,” he presented the toy he took out of subspace. “Just the same shades as his dress and face. He has an optic for colors this one,” he commented.

“Awww,” Knock Out melted as he looked proudly at his adopted Creation. “He has style and impeccable coordination skills, just like his Mama! Isn’t that utterly adorable?” he gushed.

Hook blinked. Well, sweet Primus on a pogo-stick! He eyed the Sparkling in Knock Out’s arms in disbelief. Oh yeah, the pair of them had just gotten the perfect offspring for them -- for Knock Out, at least. That baby sounded just as vain as him!

“What would be adorable,” Breakdown said with a wink, “would be for ‘Mama’ to come with me to refuel at that trendy, nearby restaurant just outside the Campus. I’ve heard they have a wonderful Caesium-Clams soup.”

“But of course!” Knock Out said with enthusiasm. “What do you say baby?” he cooed at the Sparkling. “Wanna come with Mama and Papa in that luxurious, chic place where everyone will see us and admire just how cute and fashionable you are?”

… Was it Hook’s imagination, or did that Sparkling just gave his adoptive Creator a regal nod of acceptance? Oh my…

“Since when did the two of you adopt?” he blurted out, looking at them all in disbelief.

“Oh, at least one orbital cycle and a deca-cycles ago,” Knock Out waved off easily as he handed Tracks back to Breakdown and walked to his desk, setting the datapads he was correcting neatly into piles and clearing the rest of the surface for another teacher’s use. “We had been thinking about it for a while, and then we found Tracks in the Iacon Center. He looked so perfect we couldn’t resist him. He’s adorable, isn’t he?”

“Adorable isn’t the world I’d have used,” Hook mumbled. Terrifying was more like it -- then again, it was more the actual resemblance to Knock Out that made his thermal sensors act up. “... Congratulations?” he offered, at lost.

“Thanks,” Knock Out said airily as he finished ordering the desk and walked over his mate and Sparkling. “I should be back in a megacycle or so. If there’s any emergency, let the personnel and students know they can join me on my comm. link, I’ll let him open -- though I stress it is for emergencies and emergencies only. Oh, and Hook? Think about what I told you, would you? I’m sure with a little imagination, you can find something to attract that petrorabbit to you!”

“Petrorabbit?” he heard Breakdown said as the door closed. “Were you two discussing hunting or something?” Hook didn’t heard Knock Out’s answer, but he could bet the other was laughing his aft off.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts as he realized that, for now, he was blessedly alone. Good. Perhaps that would allow him to think more clearly about him, and about what he was going to go with the reluctant Ratchet.

His mind kept going back to the conversation he had with Knock Out. A bait… tss. As if it was that easy! What could he bait a mech who was living on the Campus with?! Money? Every students needed money at some point, didn’t they? There were a lot of small jobs offered around.

Mmm, perhaps he could ask about getting a teacher aide… But no, it wouldn’t work, he decided. Teacher aides’ positions were usually reserved to students about to undergo their final exams -- something Ratchet wasn’t ready for yet, nor were any other Autobots. What else could he propose? He could always pretend to need someone to clean up at his apartment… but that wasn’t a bright plan either, was it? He grunted, still thinking about the various odd jobs he remembered doing himself when he was in the middle of his studies and wanting some extra credits his Creators couldn’t lend him. He had done a bit of everything: waiter, aide in the library, aide in the administration building, leaflet distributor, Sparkling-sitter… 

He blinked.

Sparkling-sitter… Yes, he remembered that. That was a long time ago, of course, but he remembered the time spent at that couple’s home. One of the pair had been a teacher in the local Youth Sector, while the other was a maintenance technician on the Campus. They usually arranged themselves to look after their Sparklings, but sometimes… well, sometimes, they needed extra help to watch them, especially in the evening. Hook remembered doing his homeworks sprawled on a couch with two Sparklings playing at his pedes, and spending the night over more than once due to unexpected late returns from his employers.

That… had some potential, he mused. If he had a Sparkling, and casually mentioned he needed a sitter, perhaps Ratchet would go for the bait and he could hire him? Then the younger medic would have to spend some time with him, if only a few moments.

Ah, but it wouldn’t work would it? Hook couldn’t say he knew how Ratchet thought, but the odds of him deciding to apply to a Sparkling-sitter’s position just out of goodwill seemed unlikely.

Unless… What if the ‘Sparkling’ to watch over was someone Ratchet knew?

Hook’s mind worked furiously. Glit had mentioned family, in the sense of close friends. Ratchet used to work with a whole team, right? He had glanced at his file once, but hadn’t gone too deep once he had gathered the info he wanted. From what the surgeon remembered, though, all members except one had been on the younger fringe, so most, if not all of them, had to have become Sparklings following ‘Regeneration’. Now, it was quite possible they had been adopted already, but given how many young Autobots were waiting for families to take them him, what were the odds?

That… warranted some reflection. Taking in a Sparkling, especially as a single Creator, was a lot of responsibilities, not to mention that it would totally change his way of living. Hook couldn’t say he didn’t want Sparklings, because he did. He just… had never actually pictured when they would enter his life, he supposed. Adoption was a way as any, and one that had its advantages. An Autobot Sparkling was already part self-sufficient, was it not? It meant he wouldn’t have to deal with some of the dullest aspects of Sparkling-raising. Then again, he didn’t want to be saddled with some kind of idiot just for the sake of luring in a potential lover -- or a potential Bonded, if Ratchet was just as Hook imagined him.

Decisions, decisions… He first needed to know if Ratchet could easily ‘bond’ with one of his fellow Autobot of the Sparkling’s kind. There wasn’t any on the Campus itself, but there were a couple at the Campus hospital, used for a couple of demonstrations. And there were visits to the different crèches and carecenters already planned in the program. If he played his cards right, he could observe Ratchet and see for himself what, or rather who, the best bait would be.

He leaned in the couch, even more thoughtful than before.

The idea had potential. But how to finalize it? That was the big question…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's come the true reason Hook started to consider and eventually decided to adopt Bulkhead.


End file.
